Class _£5.J_^;3_^ 
 
 Book -^-A^- l L 5' 
 
 CQRIfRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
The Light of a 
 Baby's Smile 
 
 o4.nd Other Rhymes 
 
 By William Tipton Talbott 
 
 WASHINGTON: 
 
 TERMINAL. PRESS, INC. 
 
 1921 
 
i^'^ 
 
 
 ^^\^' 
 
 Copyright, 1921, by 
 WILLIAM TIPTON TALBOTT 
 
 SEP -2 1921 
 
 g)CI.A622646 
 
THE POETASTER AND THE DICTIONARY 
 
 Oh, Dictionary, mine of varied learning, 
 Auriferously bright your treasures smile. 
 
 But smiling mock my still unfruitful yearning 
 To cultivate a rich poetic style 
 In priceless stores of verse heaped pile on pile. 
 
 There seems to murmxir through your verbal mazes 
 The music of an undertone sublime 
 
 Which, linked with cunningly assorted phrases. 
 Would make my name resplendent for all time 
 In treasured volumes of blank verse and rhyme. 
 
 So, growing still of jingled fancies fonder. 
 With no intent to do high art a wrong. 
 
 In roseate clouds of verbiage I'll ponder 
 On metric subtilties with purpose strong 
 To find at length the golden key of song. 
 
 Then will I proudly pass through fame's bright portals 
 And stir the lyric strings with fingers deft. 
 
 So that my unmelodious fellow mortals 
 Of soothing verse will never be bereft 
 Nor fancy fail while you and I are left. 
 
CONTEINTS 
 
 Pagre. 
 
 Adam Bugg in a Mix-Up 148 
 
 Adam Bugg's Christmas Qermon 140 
 
 Ambition 93 
 
 Amos J. Cummings ISO 
 
 Anthracite of Love, The 170 
 
 Anvil of the Heart, The 62 
 
 Appalling Falling, An 110 
 
 Aquatic Tragedy, An 117 
 
 Autumnal Fancy, An 110 
 
 Baer, Thanks to 169 
 
 Battle Hymn of Panama 179 
 
 Because He Didn't Take His Leave 173 
 
 Belated Christmas Story, The 18 
 
 Bicycle Jenkins 160 
 
 Bicyclers, Song of the 159 
 
 Bicycler, Ye Jollie 162 
 
 Bill Billf orce 152 
 
 Bill's Platform, Concerning 84 
 
 Bindery Boy, Ballad of the 154 
 
 Blinktum Winktum, Little 14 
 
 Black and White of It, The 94 
 
 Browning, Mrs. • • 70 
 
 Burns 69 
 
 Byron 60 
 
 Carnegie's Dream 187 
 
 Cats, The 108 
 
 Chanticleer in Urbis 45 
 
 Chauffeur, Love Song of a Jay 118 
 
 Child of Art, The • • 37 
 
 Christmas Story, The Belated 18 
 
 Climbers, The 32 
 
 Cloud and the Star, The 46 
 
 Concerning Bill's Platform 84 
 
 Concerning the Concord Philosophy 165 
 
 Cry of the Defeated, The 74 
 
 Cummings, Amos J 139 
 
 Cynic, The 94 
 
 Daybreak 53 
 
 Democracy of Beauty, The 93 
 
 Derelict, The 44 
 
 Dreamer's Heart, The 36 
 
 Dubious Idealist, A 104 
 
Page. 
 
 Easter Transformation, An 92 
 
 Extra-Inning Game, The 86 
 
 Fairest, The 59 
 
 Fatalism 73 
 
 Federal City, The 20 
 
 Fly-leaf Verses 68 
 
 Freedom, The Song of 34 
 
 Futility of Pessimism, The. 93 
 
 Gentle Chief, The 176 
 
 Girls of the G. P. O., The 143 
 
 Goldsmith 68 
 
 Gospel Melon, The 114 
 
 Hand in Hand 60 
 
 Hard Spitter, Remarks by a ISO 
 
 Hero Painting 38 
 
 Highway Ditty 161 
 
 His Fairv 56 
 
 His Tragic iSoul 116 
 
 Hood 69 
 
 How an Ex-President Failed to Save His Country. 172 
 
 How To Be Thankful 67 
 
 Ichthyoria 48 
 
 Inspiration 105 
 
 Jack 12 
 
 Jay Chauffeur, Love iSong of a 118 
 
 Jefferson 22 
 
 Jilted Bard, The 98 
 
 Jokes in Jingles, Obsolete and Obsolescent 123 
 
 Journalistic Rhymster 157 
 
 Life, A 41 
 
 Lifting of Ye Cuppe, Ye 182 
 
 Light of a Baby's iSmile, The 9 
 
 Little Blinktum Winktum 14 
 
 Little Fan, Rhyme of the 87 
 
 Little Housekeeper, The 10 
 
 Little iSlippers 57 
 
 Little Tiny Toes 15 
 
 Lost Childhood 65 
 
 Longfellow 70 
 
 Love and Fame 105 
 
 Love Sophist, The 96 
 
Page. 
 
 Love-sick Oculist, The • • 97 
 
 Love's Message 54 
 
 Love Song of a Jay Chauffeur 118 
 
 Mad Quest, The 95 
 
 Milton 68 
 
 Miser's Clutch, The 93 
 
 Miss Canada, Uncle Sam to 178 
 
 Moore 69 
 
 Mount Pleasant, Spring in 23 
 
 Mrs. Browning 70 
 
 Musings of a Woman Suffragist 167 
 
 Naturalistic Warbler, A 100 
 
 New Year, The 17 
 
 New Year: 1904 142 
 
 New Ballad of the Old Home 107 
 
 Night Manne, Ye 150 
 
 Obsolete and Obsolescent Jokes in Jingles 123 
 
 Old Piano, The 171 
 
 One Sure Thing, The 190 
 
 Opening Remarks of the Oyster 89 
 
 Opening the Door 186 
 
 Oyster, The 88 
 
 Panama, Battle Hymn of 179 
 
 Peace, The Voice of 29 
 
 Pessimistic Addendum, A 101 
 
 Pillar of the Works, A 144 
 
 Piney Branch 24 
 
 Piney's Night (Song 28 
 
 Poe 70 
 
 Poet, The 30 
 
 Poet on the Links, A 94 
 
 Poets, The 188 
 
 Post-Victorian Anomaly, A 99 
 
 Practical Punster, A 115 
 
 Pressman, Rhyme of the 145 
 
 Progress 64 
 
 Proofreader and the Bard, The 90 
 
 Realist, A 91 
 
 Remarks by a Hard Spitter 180 
 
 Rhyme of the Little Tan 87 
 
 Rhymes of the Hippowheel 158 
 
Page. 
 
 Sad Iron, The 102 
 
 Sermon for Cynics, A 76 
 
 Shakspere 68 
 
 Sing a Song of Concord 164 
 
 Snorer, Tlie Ill 
 
 Song of Freedom, Ttie 34 
 
 Song of the Joke 135 
 
 Songs of the Anthracite Coal Strike 169 
 
 Spring in Mount Pleasant 23 
 
 Stoic, The 61 
 
 " Sweet " 50 
 
 Sweet Oblivion 105 
 
 Sweet Reasoning 16 
 
 Talkative War Cloud, The 184 
 
 Talker, The 82 
 
 Tennyson 70 
 
 Thanks to Baer 169 
 
 Three of a Kind 112 
 
 Tiny Toes, Little 15 
 
 Toil 42 
 
 Uncle iSam to Miss Canada 178 
 
 Uncle (Sam to Wu 174 
 
 Under the Stars 58 
 
 Unshaken State, The 66 
 
 Visitation from the Hollow, A 26 
 
 Voice of Peace, The 29 
 
 Wanderer, The 85 
 
 War Cloud, The Talkative 184 
 
 Washington 21 
 
 When Poets Sing 81 
 
 Whistle, The 146 
 
 Wliistling Wind, The 52 
 
 Whittier 70 
 
 Winter Sunset, A. 47 
 
 Woman, A 40 
 
 Woman Hater, The 106 
 
 Woman Suffragist, Musings of a 167 
 
 Wordsworth's Inconsistency 101 
 
 Wu, Uncle Sam to 174 
 
 Young Man's Plaint, The 55 
 
 Zion Alley, In 113 
 
> 
 
THE LIGHT OF A BABY'S SMILE 
 
 Since man in his weakness the impulse knew 
 
 From the better path to roam, 
 The beacon that has ever held him true 
 
 Is the guiding star of home. 
 Then ring, bells, ring ; let your voices tell 
 
 Of the fireside's cheer the while, 
 Where the watchful mother sees earth grow fair 
 
 In the light of a baby's smile. 
 
 We dream of glories that fade and fail 
 
 In the rush of the fleeting years ; 
 But we'll trust the future and never quail, 
 
 Though our longings end in tears. 
 Then ring, bells, ring ; let your voices tell 
 
 How the war against all things vile 
 Shall be waged till the hearts of men find peace 
 
 In the light of a baby's smile. 
 
 Oh, long must we wait for the perfect day 
 
 And too often in darkness grope. 
 But there glimmers an ever-brightening ray 
 
 From the war-dimmed star of hope. 
 Then ring, oh, bells; let your voices tell 
 
 Of a future free from guile — 
 Of the promise that dawned at Bethlehem 
 
 In the light of a baby's smile. 
 
THE LITTLE HOUSEKEEPER 
 
 A little housekeeper years ago, 
 
 Blue-eyed and with hair of gold, 
 In a garden nook, with her cheeks aglow, 
 Through a mimic kitchen went to and fro 
 And kneaded her mimic lumps of dough, 
 And her mimic pie-crust rolled. 
 
 Of tiny dishes and pans and pots 
 
 She had an abundant array. 
 Oh, she was a creature of frugal thoughts ; 
 In her pantry, the tidiest of spots. 
 Were make-believe jellies and pastry and lots 
 
 Of make-believe fruit stowed away. 
 
 And through the fence, as she moved about, 
 
 Her glances demurely ran 
 To where, with red lips in a bashful pout 
 (Not overbold, but with heart too stout 
 By an aproned sprite to be put to rout) , 
 
 Stood a brown-eyed little man. 
 
 His body swayed with the movement shy 
 
 Of mistrustful little men 
 When a stranger maiden stands hard by 
 And they don't know whether to stay or lEly, 
 And would fain, but dare not, venture nigh. 
 
 She pondered awhile, and then — 
 
 10 
 
Her look sedate was with sunshine fraught 
 And she straightened her knitted brows. 
 "He doesn't look a bit bad," she thought; 
 Then cried, as the ground his glances sought, 
 All unconscious of the spell she wrought, 
 " Won't you come and play keeping house ? " 
 
 He went and played. Ah, the debonair 
 Sweet maid proved a comrade boon ; 
 
 And of household burdens each took a share. 
 
 While their grave, quaint prattle filled the air 
 
 In a guileless mockery of care, 
 All that golden afternoon. 
 
 He went and played. That was years ago. 
 
 Nor has fortune done him ill ; 
 For the little housekeeper, with cheeks aglow, 
 Who kneaded her mimic lumps of dough 
 (With a kiss to seal it, he says 'tis so) 
 
 Is his little housekeeper still. 
 
 11 
 
JACK 
 
 One day, as lazily the breezes crept 
 
 Above the grass like unseen messengers 
 
 That whispered gossip sweet from flower to flower, 
 
 A little girl I knew came up the path, 
 
 Paused, and upon my invitation sat 
 
 Beside me on the porch. In genial mood 
 
 We whiled away a vagrant quarter-hour. 
 
 She with the story of a dog named Jack, 
 
 I with due recognition of Jack's worth. 
 
 And this, done into rhyme, is what she said : 
 
 I've got the nicest dog at home, 
 
 We call him Jack — and, oh, 
 When he can't go with me, you ought 
 
 To see him want to go. 
 
 He frisks about and won't keep still 
 
 When I put on my hat. 
 I made him stay at home today 
 
 Because he chased a cat. 
 
 He's got the cutest stumpy legs 
 
 And little velvet ears, 
 One day my papa made believe 
 
 He'd snip them with the shears. 
 
 My papa's awful nice and just 
 
 As funny as can be ; 
 He loves my mamma, and I guess 
 
 He's fond of Jack and me. 
 
 12 
 
And when Jack barks he says it's strange 
 
 A dog should try to sing. 
 Jack's got a tail curled up just like — 
 
 Just like a napkin ring. 
 
 Well, there comes Jack. I wonder how 
 
 He ever did get here. 
 Why, Jack, you couldn't make more fuss 
 
 If I'd been gone a year. 
 
 She gravely introduced him, and I took 
 
 Jack's friendly paw, while in his eyes there glowed 
 
 The mellow light of canine friendliness ; 
 
 Called him good fellow, nor forgot to add 
 
 A word of praise. And then, to my regret. 
 
 Her playmates called her, and the maiden rose 
 
 And said good-bye. But ere she went she pinned 
 
 A dandelion blossom on my coat 
 
 And, with the bland complaisance of a queen. 
 
 Gave me a kiss because I praised her dog. 
 
 13 
 
LITTLE BLINKTUM WINKTUM 
 
 Little Blinktum Winktum has regal ways, 
 
 The chubby, fat-fisted slip of a man ; 
 He is Shah of a realm which he quaintly sways 
 
 From his throne in the fireside Teheran. 
 
 Over hill and dale he doth bravely ride 
 On his fiery steed, the paternal knee, 
 
 With all of a despot's reckless pride 
 
 And a peacock's plume for a snickersnee. 
 
 He is full of whims as becomes a Shah, 
 And his thirst for adventure never slakes ; 
 
 Now he wars on Grimalkin, and now the law 
 Of the pantry his restless spirit breaks. 
 
 He has taken a trip to Grandmother Town, 
 Where the sweet-voiced woman sits and hums 
 
 A song of the days when her hair was brown 
 
 Ere she found the peace that with twilight comes. 
 
 There in the corner she sits and tells 
 
 (Lo, the Shah has ceased his barbaric noise) 
 
 Of deep-voiced giants and elves in the dells, 
 And of good and bad little girls and boys. 
 
 With his head at rest on the kindly lap 
 
 Of the dear old woman who spins him tales. 
 
 The Shah at last has begun a nap 
 
 As the lamps are lighted and twilight fails. 
 
 And a giant comes and carefully lifts 
 
 The form of the Shah of the Drowsy Head 
 
 And bears him away, where the darkness drifts. 
 To his royal rest in a truckle-bed. 
 
 14 
 
LITTLE TINY TOES 
 
 When the Shadow Giant 
 
 Comes across the land, 
 Dropping seeds of slumber 
 
 From his dewy hand, 
 Then the household darling, 
 
 Little Tiny Toes, 
 Cries in winning accents, 
 
 As to bed she goes. 
 Ere the slumber blossoms 
 
 All about her creep : 
 " Tum an' tiss me, mamma ; 
 
 Den me'll go to s'eep." 
 
 Pretty little sly-boots. 
 
 Though she calmly lies. 
 She's not always sleeping 
 
 When she shuts her eyes. 
 Mamma may have kissed her 
 
 Many times before, 
 Yet you'll hear her pleading. 
 
 While her eyes once more 
 Through half -lifted eyelids 
 
 O'er the bedclothes peep : 
 " Tum an' tiss me, mamma ; 
 
 Den me'll go to s'eep.' ' 
 
 So the household darling, 
 
 Little Tiny Toes, 
 Fights the Shadow Giant 
 
 Ere she finds repose; 
 As the tranquil twilight 
 
 Slowly disappears. 
 Pleads for good-night kisses. 
 
 In the mother's ears 
 Sweet, ah, sweet, the drowsy 
 
 Nestling's parting cheep : 
 " Tum an' tiss me, mamma ; 
 
 Den me'll go to s'eep." 
 
SWEET REASONING 
 
 On tiptoe, very wide awake, 
 
 Drawn for a moment from her play, 
 Watching grandmother frost a cake. 
 
 Wee Mabel stood one day. 
 
 A spell of pensive silence passed, 
 When by a sudden impulse led, 
 " My papa says I'm dwowing fast," 
 With artless pride she said. 
 
 Then pausing as the future glowed 
 With promise in her childish view : 
 " And, dwanma, when I get all dwowed. 
 Then I can fwost cakes, too." 
 
 Grandmother stooped, and with a kiss 
 
 Mabel was folded to a breast 
 Whose longings for her future bliss 
 
 Love-moistened eyes expressed. 
 
 " Dwanma," she murmured, nestling there, 
 Her sense of fostering love complete, 
 
 " I dess there's fwostin' on your hair 
 Betause you are so sweet." 
 
 jn 
 
THE NEW YEAR 
 
 Oh, new-born year, the lives of years are fleeting. 
 The farewell echo mocks too soon their greeting, 
 Life's round in seeming emptiness completing. 
 
 Yet age by age the circling earth has flourished, 
 
 And man, by nature's genial forces nourished. 
 
 Has thrived while gross and evil things have perished. 
 
 Year, may your moments with the future blending 
 See man, the tireless climber, still ascending. 
 The ways of truth more clearly comprehending — 
 
 See man, by needless strife less madly blinded. 
 Still growing kinder hearted, broader minded ; 
 Still less wrapped up in self, more open handed. 
 
 May those who toil, in brotherhood combining, 
 Maintain their rights, no faithless act designing ; 
 Lead better lives in scorn of base repining. 
 
 And may the strong from duty's path cease straying, 
 
 The sacred trust of brotherhood betraying. 
 
 For this, oh, new-born year, we're hoping, praying. 
 
 17 
 
THE BELATED CHRISTMAS STORY 
 
 Mr. Henrik Ibsen Ghostleigh would have scorned to break a 
 
 rule 
 Of the Psycho-Introspective-Morbid-Analytic School. 
 
 He had written many novels, deep and sad and up to date, 
 And at last he tried a Christmas tale, which seemed like 
 tempting fate. 
 
 "I will paint," he said, "ail Uncle, jovial, stout, and in his 
 prime. 
 Who returns with wealth unbounded from some far, mys- 
 terious clime. 
 
 " There shall be a Widowed Sister and her interesting brood, 
 With three months of unpaid house rent and a scarcity of 
 food. 
 
 "And he shall return at Yuletide, just to please the girls and 
 boys. 
 With the house rent and provisions and a wagonload of toys. 
 
 ** But I'll skip the faults of Dickens, who scarce suits the mod- 
 ern mood. 
 With his mid- Victorian pathos and his methods often crude. 
 
 " For a story is not finished, though its figures pass in shoals, 
 If we fail to trace the movement of the clockwork of their 
 souls." 
 
 Then he started with the youngest, sweet, contented little 
 
 Poll, 
 Tracing back to ancient mollusks her affection for the doll. 
 
 18 
 
And he showed how cheerful Tommy and good-natured little 
 
 Jim 
 Owed their overflow of spirits to the latest from the limb. 
 
 And he found that restless Susie, with her knowing nods 
 
 and winks, 
 Was almost as tough a problem as the riddle of the Sphinx. 
 
 In the Widow's older girls and boys, and in herself at last. 
 He discovered traits that lingered from the Ghostland of the 
 past. 
 
 Then he made the long-lost Uncle ooze with kindness un- 
 alloyed 
 
 Which he traced with rare acumen back to sources anthro- 
 poid. 
 
 But the life-scroll of the Uncle was not easily unrolled 
 And the merry chimes of Christmas found the story still 
 untold. 
 
 For he was a thorough artist, and he would not break a rule 
 Of the Psycho-Introspective-Morbid-Analytic School. 
 
 So those little helpless children nearly froze for want of coal, 
 While Henry Ibsen Ghostleigh analyzed their Uncle's soul. 
 
 And the gnawing pangs of hunger by no generous purse were 
 
 stayed, 
 And they got no Christmas presents and the house rent was 
 
 unpaid. 
 
 And when the tale was finished they were warmed by April's 
 
 breath ; 
 But the good old Christmas Uncle had been analyzed to 
 
 death. 
 
 19 
 
THE FEDERAL CITY 
 
 Not like the marvel of a faery dawn 
 
 From swamp and woodland this bright city rose. 
 
 Yet to the magic of a dream it owes 
 
 Its site sequestered. While the years pass on 
 
 With some scant gain from war's hard tillage won, 
 
 City of promise, still the hope of those 
 
 Who cherish peace on earth, its beauty grows 
 
 True to the fostering dream of Washington. 
 
 In simple splendor like our flag unfurled, 
 
 The white charm of the Hellenic past outdone, 
 
 So may it stand, when men have learned to shun 
 
 The hell of nation against nation hurled, 
 
 Its structures fair uplifted in the sun 
 
 To shed memorial radiance o'er the world. 
 
 20 
 
WASHINGTON 
 
 Facing the cloud wrack as the tempest brewed 
 
 Prophetic impulse overmastered him 
 
 And sealed his heart with strength. Beyond the dim, 
 
 Wild dawn of freedom with sad heart he viewed 
 
 The sacrificial torrent, crimson-hued ; 
 
 But saw the land her torch of empire trim. 
 
 And bent his mind, that would not brook their whim, 
 
 To weigh the people's cause, and found it good. 
 
 And when, full-orbed, from battle rose the State, 
 
 They scarce could feel lie found their praises sweet 
 
 And could but think that he'd dare question fate, 
 
 So firm he stood, so coldly gracious — great 
 
 In that sure way, dispelling base conceit. 
 
 Which leads to power and fame by pathways straight. 
 
 21 
 
JEFFERSON 
 
 (April 2, 1743^uly 4, 1826) 
 
 When overseas intolerance more and more 
 
 Misprized the New World spirit, his the pen 
 
 To give potential mutterings of men 
 
 A vital meaning. From Columbia's shore 
 
 The luminous mandate, christened with their gore, 
 
 Lifted the night of kingly rule ; and when, 
 
 In the strange, dazzling day that followed war, 
 
 Marplots and weaklings threatened what was won, 
 
 He shaped a steady course with craft to shun 
 
 The snares and pitfalls set for patriots massed 
 
 In yet untutored factions, till at last, 
 
 The civic growth he cherished well begun, 
 
 Cheered by the people's festal shouts, he passed. 
 
 The Great Republic's greatest citizen. 
 
 22 
 
SPRING IN MOUNT PLEASANT 
 
 In the green of old oaks, of the poplar and maple, 
 Of the lawns in their brightening array. 
 
 On the verge of the city and bordered by woodland, 
 Mount Pleasant is welcoming May. 
 
 The calm of a village pervades the green vistas ; 
 
 By a gateway a dog lies at rest ; 
 On the porch sprawls a sun-drowsy cat ; the brisk robin 
 
 Flies off with a worm to his nest. 
 
 The soul of a song in the stir of soft breezes 
 
 Foretells the ripe splendor of June, 
 And down in the park caws a crow fitting darkly 
 
 Where Piney is rippling the tune. 
 
 23 
 
PINEY BRANCH 
 
 With the murmurous music primeval 
 
 Of creation aglow in the dark 
 For ages unnumbered I rippled 
 
 Ere the forest became a park. 
 
 There were birds in the thickets that twittered ; 
 
 There were blossoms on either bank ; 
 There were insects to mimic my whisper ; 
 
 The beast of the wild came and drank. 
 
 And then came the prowling savage, 
 With his sinuous, moccasined tread, 
 
 And peopled the Hollow with spirits; 
 In my voice heard a song of the dead. 
 
 Till at last there were women and children, 
 There were men from the growing town. 
 
 To rejoice in the restful quiet 
 
 Of the ways where I wandered down. 
 
 They came with their joys and longings. 
 With their dreams from the world apart, 
 
 And the Hollow was consecrated 
 In the warmth of the human heart. 
 
 Then at last came the builders of houses 
 
 With their eyes on the hillsides where, 
 Down the green-tented dingle flowing. 
 To the mothering creek I fare. 
 
 24 
 
But statesmen proud of their City, 
 With its splendor that is to be, 
 
 In their dream of that City's future 
 Caught the sound of my rippled plea. 
 
 For the mystic charm of the wildwood 
 No power of wealth can restore 
 
 Though the coming generations 
 Its loss may at last deplore. 
 
 You may replace the columned mansion 
 Or the marble shaft, but, alack, 
 
 Not with millions piled on millions 
 
 Can you bring your lost leafage back. 
 
 So they stayed the encroaching menace 
 Where the builders had threatened long 
 
 To come with their bricks and mortar 
 And extinguish my purling song. 
 
 Having saved the creek for the people, 
 They at length gave heed to the brook ; 
 
 To the Park's rare beauty they added 
 The charm of the sylvan nook. 
 
 And in days to come glad thousands 
 Will find the repose they seek 
 
 Idling down by the shaded pathway 
 To the bridge where I join the creek. 
 
 25 
 
A VISITATION FROM THE HOLLOW 
 
 The day is almost done; the porch 
 
 Invites to dreamy smoking, 
 And there my unfleshed spirit sits 
 
 The joy of calm invoking. 
 
 Beyond the lawn the treetops high 
 
 Loom up from Piney Hollow, 
 And as I view the darkening scene 
 
 Strange are the sights that follow. 
 
 From out the park, across the road, 
 Upon the grass come trooping 
 
 A woodland host. From every clime 
 And age 'twould seem they're grouping. 
 
 Behold ye, now, here comes a band 
 
 Of Ireland's little people ; 
 With roguish smiles and cudgel play 
 
 In Celtic joy they leap all. 
 
 Tiptoeing pixy dancers pass 
 With movements gaily zestf ul ; 
 
 A choir of echoes, lingering by, 
 Sing ditties old and restful. 
 
 From classic Greece and Rome appear 
 
 The shrinking hamadryad, 
 A satyr prancing o'er the turf, 
 
 The supple nymph and naiad. 
 
 2r) 
 
But while the show is at its best 
 
 And interest is griping, 
 A red-head leprechaun speaks up 
 
 In words as follows, piping : 
 
 * Heaven rest our friend. Still let him drowse, 
 
 Scant thought on wealth bestowing. 
 There's wealth aplenty in his dreams, 
 I guess we'd best be going." 
 
 With that the revelers seek the shade. 
 Where fairy lamplight glimmers. 
 
 While o'er the dark horizon yet 
 Belated daylight shimmers. 
 
 The grinning leprechaun goes last. 
 With darts and swerves gymnastic. 
 
 And leaves me wondering if his words 
 Are kindly or sarcastic. 
 
 But thus or so, I don't believe 
 
 The only golden minute 
 (As those there are who seem to think) 
 
 Is one with dollars in it. 
 
 And it were well, I think, if men 
 Such tales as this could swallow 
 
 And now and then with unfleshed souls 
 See things in Piney Hollow. 
 
 27 
 
PINEY'S NIGHT SONG 
 
 When shadows haunt the hollow, 
 When night has followed day, 
 
 Beneath the stars that twinkle 
 I tinkle down the way — 
 
 Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 
 I tinkle down the way. 
 
 With darkness all about me 
 
 My music is not sad, 
 But as I faintly tinkle 
 
 The whispering leaves grow glad- 
 Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 
 
 The whispering leaves grow glad. 
 
 A breeze with dewy fingers 
 Touches the leaves, and soon 
 
 In softly answering cadence 
 They join my tinkling tune — 
 
 Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 
 They join my tinkling tune. 
 
 Tired mortal leave the city. 
 
 The noises made by men. 
 And in my liquid tinkle 
 
 Hear nature's voice again — 
 Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 
 
 Hear nature's voice again. 
 
 For youth is still the portion 
 Of hearts in tune to stray 
 Where voicing dreamy gladness 
 I tinkle down the way — 
 Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 
 Beneath the stars that twinkle 
 Responsive to my lay. 
 
 28 
 
THE VOICE OF PEACE 
 
 Oh, man, why shouldst thou turn aside 
 
 To woo my sister War, 
 When I would gladly be thy bride, 
 
 Thy faithful comforter. 
 
 And is it love of fitful fame 
 
 That kindles thy desire ? 
 Ah, she will fill thy heart with flame, 
 
 Thy veins with wasteful fire. 
 
 Those lips grow vocal with despair 
 By my swart sister kissed ; 
 
 The masses of her tangled hair 
 Are dank with bloody mist. 
 
 Nor is it true that manhood springs 
 From battle-harrowed soil; 
 
 That honor loves to trail her wings 
 Where death repays thy toil. 
 
 Ah, give not heed unto the lie, 
 Howe'er it make thee thrill ; 
 
 Though it be brave to nobly die. 
 It is not brave to kill. 
 
 So count of human strife the cost, 
 
 And let me sing to thee 
 Till senseless pride is bravely lost 
 
 In high humility. 
 
 29 
 
THE POET 
 
 Bound in chains of contemplation 
 
 Broods the poet long; 
 Broods on future world-progression 
 Till his thoughts begin to freshen 
 
 Into golden song. 
 
 Many-mooded though his heart is — 
 With all passion fraught — 
 
 By the fireside, where the mart is, 
 
 In all places, love a part is 
 Of what he has taught. 
 
 Came the poet, child of gladness, 
 
 When the world was young. 
 Soothing life's untutored madness, 
 And unto the voice of sadness 
 Gave a sweeter tongue — 
 
 Blending music with the grinding 
 
 Of the wheels of life, 
 And with saintly eyesight finding 
 Beauty even mid the blinding 
 
 Storms of human strife. 
 
 Till at last he sadly pauses 
 
 In life's brighter beams, 
 Awed by care and care's grim causes, 
 Deafer to the world's applauses. 
 
 Dreaming hopeful dreams — 
 
 Dreams of truth's triumphal ditties, 
 
 Dreams of regions where 
 None so base but gently pities. 
 In the many-hearted cities, 
 
 Strugglers with despair; 
 
 30 
 
Dreams of heroes calm and scarless, 
 
 Simplifying life ; 
 Dreams of nations grand but warless, 
 Passing from the chill and starless 
 
 Night of human strife. 
 
 So to kindle and to cherish 
 
 In the human heart 
 Flames of thought less gross and garish, 
 Making vileness shrink and perish, 
 
 Is his special part. 
 
 And his song, however subtle, 
 
 More than joy can give. 
 Is not wholly false and futile, 
 If some part of instincts brutal 
 
 Thereby cease to live. 
 
 31 
 
THE CLIMBERS 
 
 I see the climbers of the massive-rocked 
 
 And dragon-haunted 
 Ledges and cHffs where, by Hope's phantoms mocked 
 
 And tempest-shocked, 
 
 They stand undaunted. 
 
 Who are these kings of isolated heights 
 
 Where fame is blended 
 With rest? Who are these great-browed eremites 
 
 Of thought whose fights 
 
 With Fate are ended ? 
 
 Who these calm listeners to the tempest-screams 
 
 Of Fate defeated. 
 That through the splendor of their battle-dreams 
 
 Behold the gleams 
 
 Of toil completed? 
 
 Earth, who are your sons that mount and stand 
 
 Upon the verges 
 Of rugged cliffs where, rising o'er the land, 
 
 The mountain grand 
 
 With cloudland merges? 
 
 Who are these restless knights that make no truce 
 
 With fiend or dragon. 
 And toiling skyward, deem of little use 
 
 The grape's sweet juice 
 
 In pleasure's flagon? 
 
 32 
 
What birthright of nobihty have they, 
 
 With strong Hmbs crushing 
 Beneath their feet the trials of today 
 
 Ere morning's gray 
 
 With hope is flushing ? 
 
 Has Fame, the giantess of tale and song, 
 
 Her temple portals 
 At last thrown open to the common throng? 
 
 Dare she thus wrong 
 
 The great immortals ? 
 
 Ask him who stands where glow the cliffs with chill 
 
 Heroic beauty. 
 And he will say, "By right of brain and will 
 
 I toiled until 
 
 The voice of Duty, 
 
 Gathering sweetness as it floated down 
 
 The brightening gorges, 
 Said : " Lo ! now mayst thou wear, to soothe my frown 
 
 The iron crown 
 
 Ambition forges ! '" 
 
 33 
 
THE SONG OF FREEDOM 
 
 I was born in the brain of the poet 
 
 In the days when the earth was young; 
 
 In the days ere men with the silent pen 
 Supplanted the minstrel's tongue. 
 
 In the days when the earth was noisy 
 With the discord her children wrought ; 
 
 When her youthful pulse beat out results 
 Unchecked by the touch of thought. 
 
 Seek, but you can not find it, 
 
 Seek, but you seek in vain, 
 For the far-off time when in throes of rhyme 
 
 I sprang from the poet's brain. 
 
 My pinions have been bedraggled 
 
 In the red dew of war's night. 
 And many a crown has been trampled down 
 
 Since I began my flight. 
 
 Sowing the seeds of progress 
 
 I have crouched in the shadow of thrones ; 
 And I fain would change into warlike strains 
 
 The music of slavish groans. 
 
 34 
 
I have cried o'er the house of bondage 
 
 To the people, " Awake, awake." 
 And amidst his power in that fateful hour 
 
 I have seen the tyrant quake. 
 
 Ever I sweetly whisper 
 
 To the heroes within my fold, 
 And ever I frown on the shifty clown 
 
 Who is won by the lure of gold. 
 
 Ever I stand and beckon 
 
 And point to the land of rest. 
 Where never the throb of a slavish sob 
 
 Shall rise in the human breast. 
 
 Ah, many a laggard aeon 
 
 Shall creep o'er the path of Time, 
 
 Ere my toil shall end and all heart throbs blend 
 Like the flow of a matchless rhyme. 
 
 35 
 
THE DREAMER'S HEART 
 
 Source of man's upward striving, 
 Yet viewless to sordid eyes, 
 
 Lost in the heart of the Dreamer 
 The secret of beauty hes ; 
 
 And the Dreamer can hardly find it, 
 And it dies if the Dreamer dies. 
 
 Lo, it fills his heart with the gladness 
 Of emotions at war with wrong, 
 
 That in part are the dower of manhood 
 And in part to youth belong ; 
 
 And there lie the deeps unf athomed 
 Of the silence that is song. 
 
 S6 
 
THE CHILD OF ART 
 
 The child of art, his fate seems hard ; 
 
 The sacred debt which he has laid 
 Upon the world is by the world 
 
 In worldly wealth but poorly paid. 
 
 Even at the best, half understood 
 He stands ashiver in the cold 
 
 Of patronizing smiles, and yearns 
 For sympathy mid showers of gold. 
 
 With weary heart and eager brain 
 Forever striving toward the best, 
 
 The grandest outburst of his song 
 Is but a vision of unrest. 
 
 The chiseled stone or painted scene. 
 Which ever holds the world apart 
 
 From care an instant, does but mock 
 What glowed within his fervid heart. 
 
 Yet on, still on, through mortal years. 
 O'er heights by ceaseless effort gained, 
 
 He seeks with strange unbending pride 
 The beautiful, the unattained. 
 
 37 
 
HERO PAINTING 
 
 What matter whether eyes of brown or blue 
 
 Or eyes of gray 
 Lit up his face ? What matter if a frown 
 
 King-like upon it lay ? 
 
 What matter if he dressed with seemly care 
 
 And with calm grace 
 Could win a lady's " Thank you," or a name 
 
 Back through the past could trace ? 
 
 Such touches truly lend a softer glow 
 
 To portraiture 
 Of him whose entity the jailor Time 
 
 Strives vainly to immure. 
 
 Useful accessories are they no doubt ; 
 
 But what he did — 
 His triumph over self, his war for truth — 
 
 Is what must not be hid. 
 
 And if he stooped to soothe the wretchedness 
 
 Of hearts that bleed. 
 And pitied deeper than his words could reach, 
 
 That matters much indeed. 
 
 38 
 
And much it matters if he proudly dared 
 
 To speak his mind 
 When men in fury strove to damn the truth, 
 
 With brainless passion blind. 
 
 But most it matters if he toiled in vain 
 
 Through lonely years, 
 Heart sick, and yet at last achieving fame 
 
 Despite the cold world's sneers. 
 
 Oh, you who linger in the night of toil 
 
 And long for day, 
 Take heart — the grandest hero is the man 
 
 Of whom the world shall say 
 
 That from the roadside of defeat he plucked 
 
 The flower success, 
 Bravely and with a modesty sublime, 
 
 Not with blind eagerness. 
 
 39 
 
A WOMAN 
 
 She bore with saintly strength o'er life's rough highways 
 
 The awful burden of a tender heart 
 
 And ever found contentment's brightest byways 
 
 There where her smile might soothe some human smart. 
 
 For her love glowed in deeds that vitalized it, 
 
 Not less the house plant prim than wayside bloom ; 
 
 Duty in love that warmed and humanized it 
 
 With such high splendor as dispels its primal gloom. 
 
 She lived her life in hopefulness of spirit ; 
 
 She loved the beautiful, the good, the true ; 
 
 Prized lofty aims not more than lowly merit 
 
 That stoops the grand small tasks of life to do — 
 
 Conquering self, with scarce a murmur holding 
 
 Her soul at rest mid mortal griefs and jars 
 
 Until the light her presence calm enfolding 
 
 Shone with the sweet quiescent grandeur of the stars. 
 
 40 
 
A LIFE 
 
 A young man stood where two roads met, 
 And one went up and the other down ; 
 
 And his lips were in battle-firmness set, 
 
 And his face was fair and his hair was brown. 
 
 And he almost sobbed, " 'Tis the hour — the hour. 
 
 Farewell to youth ; I must choose the road." 
 And stooping to pluck a wayside flower, 
 
 With a mighty effort he upward strode. 
 
 And at last on a hilltop stood a seer 
 Benignly strong and supremely mild, 
 
 Whose life was a story of toil severe ; 
 
 And his hair was gray, but his brave lips smiled. 
 
 41 
 
TOIL 
 
 Alas, for the young hearts awaking 
 
 To the hopes and the sin and the breaking 
 
 And the prodigal tears 
 
 Of the burdensome years 
 That glow bright in the future with promise ? 
 Alas, that the dreams which we cherish 
 In the fires of fruition should perish — 
 
 That it darkens the sun 
 
 When the real is won 
 And we banish the ideal from us. 
 
 The story is ever repeated 
 
 Of Youth's aspirations defeated. 
 
 We battle and dream 
 
 Of achievement supreme; 
 But, ah, the deceitful tomorrow 
 Is forever its promise belying 
 And the tear-drops forever are drying 
 
 On hope's fallen leaves 
 
 Where humanity grieves, 
 Clad about with the mantle of sorrow. 
 
 The goal where we thought that the burden 
 Would fall and the coveted guerdon 
 
 Of rest would be found 
 
 Is the desolate bound 
 Where a demon of restless endeavor 
 Rises up in the bosom to taunt us 
 With tasks that still lure us and daunt us, 
 
 Till we turn once again 
 
 To the battle with men 
 In the glare of the pitiless Never. 
 
 42 
 
Aye ; but labor is manfully human. 
 Toil, toil, is the test of a true man. 
 
 Though success yield him light. 
 
 Though he reel in the fight, 
 Though his pathway be sunless and dreary, 
 Still he feels for his burden-bent brothers, 
 And shrinks from the baseness that smothers 
 
 The feeling divine 
 
 Of the heart-throb benign 
 That would hold up the hands of the weary. 
 
 43 
 
THE DERELICT 
 
 He was human — therefore weep — 
 Human, foul wth mortal grime ; 
 
 One perhaps of those who reap 
 Failure from desires sublime. 
 
 Wreck of what was once a man, 
 
 Scarred and battered, meanly dressed, 
 
 From his name death lifts the ban. 
 He was human ; let him rest. 
 
 He was human. Though he seemed 
 
 Heedless of the ills of life, 
 Who shall say he never dreamed 
 
 Of relief from storm and strife ? 
 
 There are souls that long to clutch 
 What is best of earthly things. 
 
 But to droop beneath the touch 
 Of defeat's benumbing stings — 
 
 Souls aspirant, yet too weak 
 With the rugged world to cope ; 
 
 Souls with thoughts they fail to speak ; 
 Souls that are the graves of hope. 
 
 So perhaps the slumberer there 
 Nursed ambitions in his breast 
 
 Which o'erleaped his strength to dare. 
 He was human ; let him rest. 
 
 4« 
 
CHANTICLEER IN URBIS 
 
 Stately rooster, staunch and sturdy, 
 
 It would melt old Pan to pity 
 But thy careless crowing heard he 
 
 In the great unfriendly city. 
 
 Where is cause for all thy crowing. 
 Dreary walls of brick defying? 
 
 Wert thou but a whit more knowing 
 Thou wouldst fit thyself for dying. 
 
 Dost thou think some crimson-crested, 
 Feather-mailed knight will hear thee, 
 
 Who thy strength has never tested. 
 And with doughty strut will near thee ? 
 
 Dost thou think again to battle 
 
 On a chicken's field of glory. 
 Where thy shapely spurs shall rattle 
 
 On thy rival's pinions gory ? 
 
 Thou has seen thy last of freedom ; 
 
 All thy wives another follow. 
 Ah, how proudly thou didst lead 'em, 
 
 Scratching worms for them to swallow. 
 
 46 
 
THE CLOUD AND THE STAR 
 
 I saw at night a cloud, lone, somber, float 
 Across a field of sky lit by one star. 
 
 The star, a steely point, seemed too remote 
 To stir such hearts as those of mortals are. 
 
 On moved the cloud. The star quiescent shone, 
 
 Till, floating free, a fleecy fringe of mist 
 Diffused its light, then wavered, then was gone. 
 
 Then, as I looked, by sudden radiance kissed. 
 The cloud grew luminous where from afar. 
 
 Like gold within a flower cup all abloom. 
 The light gleamed through its darkness ; and the star 
 
 Glowed softly in its gilded veil of gloom. 
 
 And so, I thought, the star of progress yet 
 (Which still too coldly glimmers in the night) 
 
 Shall in dark souls a generous warmth beget 
 And glow with love's unconquerable light. 
 
 46 
 
A WINTER SUNSET 
 
 Beneath the dusky crimson of the west 
 Like a Titanic statue sleeps the earth. 
 
 With shifting Hghts and shadows nature strives 
 To show her children how a song has birth. 
 
 They feel within them, as they gaze, the pulse 
 Of lyric tenderness that supervenes 
 
 To life's realities when poets sing. 
 
 Lo, now they know what inspiration means. 
 
 And though they voice not what the soul has felt, 
 Yet do they nourish therewithin the seed 
 
 Of higher beauty than has often been 
 
 From thence transplanted at a poet's need. 
 
 Behold, the wintry glory, scarcely dimmed. 
 Beneath the gathering darkness lingers far 
 
 Too wild for perfect beauty were it not 
 
 Tinged with the cold, clear radiance of a star. 
 
 Lingers, with fast-augmenting weirdness, till 
 The perfect somber touch of night completes 
 
 A picture rich in calm, Greek splendor such 
 As wrought sweet magic in the soul of Keats. 
 
 47 
 
ICHTHYORIA 
 
 Let others sing in rhymes of might 
 Of nation's grand that grandly fight, 
 Mine is a simple song of peace, 
 Song of the land of joy's increase — 
 The land of Ichthyoria : 
 No tumult there to worry you. 
 
 No worldly lure in its appeal. 
 
 The magic of the rod and reel 
 
 Which youth's forgotten glow restores. 
 
 The welcome of the great outdoors. 
 
 Combine in Ichthyoria 
 
 To banish thoughts that worry you. 
 
 From mountain slope to surging tide 
 
 In simple-hearted calm abide, 
 
 By brook, creek, river, lake, and sea. 
 
 Bronzed by the sun, clear-eyed, care-free, 
 
 The sons of Ichthyoria 
 
 Where there is nought to worry you. 
 
 Go seek it you who've tarried long 
 Restless amid the city throng, 
 The land of soothing voices mild, 
 The restful voices of the wild — 
 Linger in Ichthyoria: 
 No striving there to worry you. 
 
 4S 
 
It is the land of May and June, 
 
 Of whispering leaf and ripple tune, 
 
 Of pathways cool by glimmering streams, 
 
 A land of rest and idle dreams — 
 
 The land of Ichthyoria, 
 
 With nothing there to worry you. 
 
 It is a land of summer skies. 
 
 Of autumn tints when summer dies. 
 
 The land of fishing, land of days 
 
 Enchanted, land of brookside ways — 
 
 The land of Ichthyoria : 
 
 No discord there to worry you. 
 
 There, giving fretful care the slip. 
 You meet a merry fellowship ; 
 Far from the din of mortal strife 
 Grow strong again, the joy of life 
 Renewed in Ichthyoria, 
 And nothing there to worry you. 
 
" SWEET " 
 
 Queen word of all the tender words 
 
 With which the poets strive 
 In sordid breasts to keep some spark 
 
 Of sentiment alive ! 
 
 Clad in thy rare simplicity, 
 
 No pen can do thee wrong ; 
 So pardon him who makes thee here 
 
 The subject of a song. 
 
 By man forgotten are the ways 
 Whence thou hast wandered down 
 
 At last upon thy stainless brow 
 To wear the verbal crown. 
 
 About thee still the quaintnesses 
 
 Of old Dan Chaucer cling, 
 Queen word of all the tender words 
 
 With which the poets sing. 
 
 Thine absence would have marred the songs 
 
 That even Shakspere made, 
 And Milton's splendor could not spare 
 
 Thy dainty masquerade. 
 
 Burns, Byron, Wordsworth honor thee 
 
 In acts of vassalage ; 
 And yet thou dost not scorn to grace 
 
 The humblest rhymer's page. 
 
 The orator has little need 
 
 For such a word as thou, 
 Who seeks to wear a civic crown 
 
 Upon his storm-beat brow. 
 
 50 
 
And scientific men must toil 
 
 Without thy lovely smile 
 To brighten up the pages where 
 
 They hope to live awhile. 
 
 But sure the lover's debt to thee 
 
 Is seldom fully paid, 
 When with a pen of rhyme he woos 
 
 Some shy and artless maid. 
 
 For if he sings in stilted phrase, 
 
 " My heart is at thy feet," 
 And seeks to paint her with a word, 
 
 What epithet like " sweet." 
 
 And when some master of deep thought, 
 
 Humbled by earthly smarts. 
 Strives tenderly to sing such songs 
 
 As live in weary hearts. 
 
 Then better is thy simple strength 
 
 Than that of cunning words 
 Which call to mind life's storm and strife 
 
 As thou the song of birds. 
 
 Oh, thou art still love's choicest word 
 
 Of tender blandishment, 
 And with thy throne in books of song 
 
 Well mayest thou be content. 
 
 51 
 
THE WHISTLING WIND 
 
 O'er frosty eaves the whistling wind 
 Wrestles with furious shapes of snow, 
 
 While at each door and window dinned 
 His menace shrill is heard below. 
 
 But they who seek the fireside nook, 
 Where none the wintry clamor dreads. 
 
 Hear echoes still of bird and brook. 
 
 And fair the leafless landscape spreads. 
 
 And thus the soul by love kept warm. 
 When all around seems desolate. 
 
 Hears kindly voices through the storm 
 Despite the whistling wind of fate. 
 
 52 
 
DAYBREAK 
 
 There's a stir of the shadows that bound the wheat, 
 
 In the forest a sound as of squirrels' feet ; 
 
 An eerie murmur is faintly heard 
 
 (Half lost in the twitter of a bird), 
 
 Like the slow retreat of an elfin host 
 
 Grown blind in the gathering light almost. 
 
 Then, smothered in distance, faintly fall 
 
 The strident notes of a rooster's call. 
 
 The fold grows vocal ; from sleep unloosed. 
 
 With a muffled flutter, fowls drop from roost ; 
 
 And off in the pasture the spectral cows 
 
 One after another begin to browse ; 
 
 And a farmer's boy, 'neath the half -quenched stars. 
 
 At the end of the lane lets down the bars. 
 
 While a weird glow mottles the woodland tarns 
 
 And the swallows flit from the grim, gray barns. 
 
 Then up full-breasted arises the morn. 
 And the night wind dies in a rustle of corn. 
 
 53 
 
LOVE'S MESSAGE 
 
 In vain in its fullness he strives to express it, 
 
 The longing that fills and makes song in his heart. 
 
 Love dawns in its splendor. How shall he confess it ? 
 How make it of life's gracious music a part ? 
 
 Such wonder of song ; he grows faint in his yearning 
 To reach the pure height whence it trembles and flows. 
 
 But the stars in their courses its incense are burning, 
 And all the glad night with its melody glows. 
 
 Oh, he can not sing it. Yet in its completeness 
 By all kindly spirits the song shall be sung. 
 
 Till it fills her soft eyes with love's answering sweetness. 
 And the swell of its music shall quicken her tongue. 
 
 For the generous earth in his passion rejoices. 
 And the fair face of dawn flushes soft in its flame. 
 
 Lo, all nature is stirred by a murmur of voices 
 That sing it, the song lily-sweet with her name. 
 
 Oh, the spring shall be filled with it ; summer shall sing it 
 In passing of breezes and ripple of stream ; 
 
 And home to her heart purple autumn shall bring it ; 
 And winter's clear voices shall make it their theme. 
 
 In the sun-glow of noon shall the thrill of it bind her, 
 And its tenderness live in eve's wavering beams ; 
 
 In the red rose's breath shall its cadences find her. 
 And make his hope heard in night's temple of dreams. 
 
 From his heart to her heart the wild bird-song shall bear it ; 
 
 In the rhyme of all poets its glory shall dwell. 
 Oh, he can not sing it, and yet she shall hear it. 
 
 And tremble and weep and grow glad in its spell. 
 
 54 
 
THE YOUNG MAN'S PLAINT 
 
 Oh, tender-eyed darling, 
 
 Now why are you snarling 
 The soft skeins of love with your worrisome frown ? 
 
 From heights of displeasure, 
 
 My dear one, my treasure, 
 To the lowland of love come, in pity come down. 
 
 Alas, but your frowning 
 
 Has wrought the uncrowning 
 Of the joy that was throned in my heart for a day. 
 
 Let the darkness of scorning 
 
 Be lost in life's morning ; 
 Softly voice once again love's " Forever and aye." 
 
 Could I but rise to you 
 
 From depths whence I view you. 
 
 My dear one, my darling, your tenderness sure 
 Would keep and uphold me 
 Though fate should enfold me 
 
 In its uttermost shadows, still strong to endure. 
 
 Ah, you sit there so sweetly 
 
 I can not completely 
 Forego the mad nonsense of playing love's fool. 
 
 Can it be they speak truly 
 
 Who say I'll learn duly 
 That love is a passion which manhood can school ? 
 
 55 
 
HIS FAIRY 
 
 A neat little, sweet little girl is she ; 
 As purely complete as a pearl is she ; 
 
 And her eyes warmly lighten 
 
 Like dawn's rays that brighten 
 
 O'er mariners lost, 
 
 Sadly drifted and tossed 
 Through the night on the wastes of a desolate sea. 
 
 A rare little, fair little maid is she ; 
 Beyond all compare, truth-arrayed, is she ; 
 
 And but to behold her 
 
 Makes high hopes that smoulder. 
 
 Youth-hid in the soul 
 
 When it aimed at a goal, 
 Glow again with the warmth of true manhood to be. 
 
 Oh, a mere little, dear little sprite is she ; 
 Like a star shining clear in the night is she. 
 
 When strong resolves weaken, 
 
 A love-litten beacon 
 
 To strengthen and guide 
 
 Over life's misty tide. 
 Is the smile of this dear little maiden to me. 
 
 56 
 
LITTLE SLIPPERS 
 
 Little Slippers, come and sit with me, 
 
 Here in the firelight gleaming. 
 Give o'er the rythm of needle and thread ; 
 
 Twilight provokes to dreaming. 
 Cheerily side by side we'll stay 
 
 Here in the fireside weather. 
 Though drearily tree branch and shadow sway 
 
 Out in the night together. 
 
 Little Slippers, sit down with me 
 
 And talk of our early loving ; 
 Twilight never was meant to heed 
 
 The impatient clock's reproving. 
 Hopefully then I dared to think 
 
 Of a possible future wedding ; 
 And cheerfully now in my arms you sink, 
 
 And fond are the tears you are shedding. 
 
 In the sweet glory of household calm, 
 
 Lovingly twilight hearted, 
 Little Slippers, the hours we spend. 
 
 Are dearer than those departed ; 
 Dearer than ever the looks that tell 
 
 Of the wife-love in you glowing. 
 And nearer than ever are hearts that swell 
 
 At the sound of a baby crowing. 
 
 57 
 
UNDER THE STARS 
 
 Sing me a song of the May time ; 
 
 Sing me a song of love — 
 Not to be sung in the daytime, 
 
 But at night with the stars above. 
 Let each note soft and tender 
 
 Like a fond sweet sigh depart ; 
 Sing in the night's dark splendor, 
 
 Oh, sing me a song of the heart. 
 
 Under the stars, love, 
 
 Let the guitars, love. 
 Join in a song of the heart. 
 
 Sweet the refrain, love, 
 
 Sing, sing again, love. 
 Oh, sing me a song of the heart. 
 
 Sing me a song of the dove time ; 
 
 Sing me a song of May ; 
 Sing me a song of the love time 
 
 After the close of the day. 
 When all the stars are lighted, 
 
 Then let the music start ; 
 Sing of the vow we plighted. 
 
 Oh, sing me a song of the heart. 
 
 6S 
 
THE FAIREST 
 
 Fair as the flowers that are fairest ; 
 
 Aye, fairer than they ; 
 Aglow with the beauty of night 
 
 And the splendor of day. 
 
 In her eyes is the glow of the brightest 
 
 Sweet dream-day of June ; 
 In her voice the low song of the brook 
 
 When the summer's in tune. 
 
 Brightening earth with the gladness 
 
 Of a heart without guile, 
 Sunshine and starlight are blent 
 
 In the warmth of her smile. 
 
 59 
 
HAND IN HAND 
 
 Before our pathways met, dear, 
 
 True joy we did not know; 
 Now we have no regret, dear. 
 
 As hand in hand we go. 
 
 The glad stars of the night, dear, 
 
 Smile with a softer glow, 
 And day with hope is bright, dear, 
 
 As hand in hand we go. 
 
 Through years of good or ill, dear, 
 Through years of joy or woe. 
 
 Love will enfold us still, dear. 
 As hand in hand we go. 
 
 When youth at last departs, dear, 
 
 And cold the breezes blow. 
 Love's clasp will warm our hearts, dear, 
 
 As hand in hand we go. 
 
 60 
 
THE STOIC 
 
 Of thoughtful mein, deep-eyed, broad-browed, 
 
 Joy dungeoned in his heart, 
 From all the lights and shades of life 
 
 He kept himself apart. 
 
 The rose's blush, the thrill of song, 
 The child's laugh moved him not ; 
 
 The friend that died but yesterday 
 Today was all forgot. 
 
 Men viewed him half with awe and half 
 
 With bitter, world-wise sneers ; 
 He ridiculed their joy and scorned 
 
 Their sorrow-salted tears. 
 
 He might have grasped a lordly prize 
 
 Of thought or worldly power ; 
 Have plucked from Fame's reluctant hand 
 
 The bright consummate flower. 
 
 And yet he bent to servile tasks 
 
 A will supreme. He died 
 Still cloaked in dark humility. 
 
 So proud he hid his pride. 
 
 fi) 
 
THE ANVIL OF THE HEART 
 
 No work of thought is ever brought 
 
 Into the perfect form 
 That is not with suggestions fraught 
 
 Of pulse-throbs warm. 
 
 In camp and mart and realms of art 
 
 What lingers from the past 
 Upon the anvil of the heart 
 
 Was welded fast. 
 
 When warriors grim first learned to trim 
 Thought's lamp mid shout and clang, 
 
 While yet the eyes of Hope were dim, 
 That anvil rang. 
 
 The bard whose word grew warm and stirred, 
 
 By battlement and moat, 
 The oppressed to conflict long deferred. 
 
 There grandly smote. 
 
 Old heroes strong who hated wrong 
 
 And lifted honor high, 
 Amidst the strains of Freedom's song. 
 
 Have wrought thereby — 
 
 Have with stern pride thereby defied 
 
 The brutal sway of brawn 
 And swords by which swart Error died 
 
 Have forged thereon. 
 
 62 
 
Climbers who creep from steep to steep, 
 
 Dispelling human fear, 
 And rouse earth's sleepers from their sleep 
 
 With words of cheer — 
 
 Who from man's face would drive all trace 
 
 Of man-implanted woe. 
 The brave torch-bearers of the race, 
 
 Have made it glow. 
 
 Still in the murk where evils lurk. 
 With blow and song and shout. 
 
 These are such worthies as must work 
 Earth's lessons out — 
 
 Still from the mart must stand apart. 
 
 Stout smiths of destiny. 
 And smite the anvil of the heart 
 
 Incessantly. 
 
 63 
 
PROGRESS 
 
 The artist man forever toils 
 
 With tired hands that may not rest, 
 
 And still the grand ideal dwells 
 Crude and unchiseled in his breast. 
 
 Some demon puts his thoughts awry, 
 
 And, lo, before he is aware. 
 With art's sweet promise in his ear, 
 
 His hand has wrought the statue Care — 
 
 A thing with cruel lips that mock 
 
 What trace of his ideal he 
 May hope to find half marble-hid 
 
 Beneath its sordid symmetry. 
 
 And yet he ever toils, and dreams 
 
 That some day bootless toil shall cease. 
 
 Oh, wondrous time, when man may call 
 The product of his labor Peace. 
 
 64 
 
LOST CHILDHOOD 
 
 I seek but can not find the land of wonder, 
 
 Where golden eyes looked on me from the sky, 
 
 Nor can I pluck again the rare fresh blossoms 
 A child plucks, won by beauty, thoughtless why. 
 
 My heart is weary. Though the future wooed me 
 With friendly kisses, I would pass her by. 
 
 Could I but find again that land of wonder 
 
 Whose golden stars smiled on me from the sky. 
 
 The flowers I gather now I know will wither ; 
 
 Too well I see the blights that on them lie. 
 I can not pluck again the rare fresh blossoms 
 
 A child plucks, won by beauty, thoughtless why. 
 
 65 
 
THE UNSHAKEN STATE 
 
 How from time's menace shall we guard the land ? 
 
 Empires that crafty pontiffs built to stand 
 
 By right divine have left a heritage 
 
 Of strife, what time forgotten dreamers scanned 
 
 The future, saying, " Nations that achieve 
 
 Fixed greatness must to toil fair largess give." 
 
 Whereat the regnant warlord loosed his rage, 
 
 And those strange dreamers, while the law-giving sage 
 
 Looked wise and droned his tedious negative. 
 
 Were silenced. Yet effulgent lives their dream, 
 
 And those still build in vain who fail to gauge 
 
 The deadening stress of toil that brings no gleam 
 
 To darkened lives ; who miss the strength supreme 
 
 Of growth firm-founded in the workman's wage. 
 
 66 
 
HOW TO BE THANKFUL 
 
 Be thankful if a day well spent 
 
 Even in lowliest work 
 Has taught how best to meet the cares 
 
 That in life's pathway lurk. 
 
 Be thankful for the friendship tried 
 You think no storm can shake ; 
 
 Be thankful for the enemies 
 That you have failed to make. 
 
 Be thankful if, as years go by, 
 
 With higher aims you live. 
 And in stern duty's service find 
 
 That you have thanks to give. 
 
 Be thankful if your heart still feels 
 Some thrill of youthful joy ; 
 
 If manhood has not left behind 
 The simple-minded boy. 
 
 Be thankful for the kindly deeds 
 That give you pleasure still — 
 
 For kindly thoughts that in your breast 
 No frost of time can kill. 
 
 If with such thankfulness as this 
 
 Your soul you can't uplift. 
 And only feel the overfed, 
 
 Cold thankfulness of thrift — 
 
 Why, then, be thankful you have time 
 
 To profit by this verse; 
 In short, give thanks you're not so bad 
 
 That you can not be worse. 
 
 67 
 
FLY-LEAF VERSES 
 
 SHAKSPERE 
 
 Mirrored within these pages bravely throng 
 
 Shapes of a dying past at parting ways, 
 The cheery fife-notes of prophetic song 
 
 Shrilling above the din of strenuous days. 
 
 The page, the clown, the maid, the buxom lass. 
 
 The swaggering man-at-arms, the knight, the squire, 
 
 Loom lifelike in the pageant as they pass ; 
 Here sings the cricket by the winter fire. 
 
 On windy wastes at night are heard strange cries ; 
 
 A throneless king lacks shelter in the storm ; 
 Swords clash; the jester sings. With steadfast eyes 
 
 Through all benignant moves the master's form. 
 
 MILTON 
 
 Oh, sad, blind, dauntless Milton, how in thee 
 
 Life's gloom and glory must have blent ! How strong 
 
 The mortal tempests must have been that swept 
 Across the welkin of thy night of song ! 
 
 GOLDSMITH 
 
 Goldsmith, the homeless, once with smiles at fate 
 And kindly deeds made sport of frowning care : 
 
 Now in a book he lives in princely state 
 
 And entertains the world with priceless fare. 
 
 OS 
 
BURNS 
 
 Ah, me, how sadly fancy turns 
 From these sweet revels of his pen 
 
 To taverns where immortal Burns 
 Caroused at night with clayey men. 
 
 BYRON 
 
 That soul but vainly strives to simulate 
 
 Poetic splendor or poetic balm 
 In which life's wintry storms do not precede 
 
 The magic warmth of art's creative calm. 
 
 Ah, sure, no rhymer unimpassionate, 
 
 No soul untroubled by life's quickening jars, 
 
 Shall ever stand where Byron with a pen 
 Of fire translates the gossip of the stars. 
 
 MOORE 
 
 He touched the ancient harp so that it spoke 
 With Celtic clearness, simple, tender, strong, 
 
 And while the world from worldly dreams awoke, 
 Sad Erin smiled again mid flowers of song. 
 
 HOOD 
 
 When mild-eyed care and bright-eyed mirth 
 
 As with one voice together sing, 
 The wide world pauses from its toil 
 
 To listen to the caroling. 
 
 69 
 
MRS. BROWNING 
 
 Here shall the soul find sustenance divine, 
 The rare, fresh fruitage of a woman's heart 
 
 Who looked on misery with a sad, benign 
 
 Smile at the thought that she might ease its smart. 
 
 TENNYSON 
 
 The glow of passion made this poet's soul 
 Expand in beauty like a sun-kissed flower. 
 
 While with his eyes fixed on life's highest goal 
 He sang serenely conscious of his power. 
 
 POE 
 
 How we could from the poet's harp divine 
 
 Strike sounds that into measured language melt, 
 
 If we, forsooth, might simply touch the shrine 
 Where this sad worshipper of beauty knelt. 
 
 LONGFELItOW 
 
 No hot, Byronic tear-drops sear thy heart ; 
 
 But, ah, we find upon thy saintly scroll 
 Tear-stains of manly tenderness. Thou art 
 
 The high priest of the temple of the soul. 
 
 WHITTIER 
 
 As tender is his voice who carols here 
 (Whene'er he ceases for a cause to fight) 
 
 And silvery sweet as 'twere some splendid flower 
 Grown musically vocal in the night. 
 
 70 
 
Points of View 
 
 71 
 
FATALISM 
 
 What is man who shrinks from death ? 
 
 Just a fleeting spark of time, 
 Burned to ashes in a breath, 
 
 Seeking virtue, drawn to crime. 
 Virtue, born of fears and hopes. 
 
 Sop to charm some lurking wrath ; 
 Crime, a grisly thing that gropes 
 
 With pain's menace in his path. 
 
 This is man, his senses dull. 
 
 While he counts what he has done, 
 To the end inscrutable 
 
 That makes crime and virtue one ; 
 Moved and mastered by a power 
 
 That he can not comprehend ; 
 Restless puppet, for an hour 
 
 Working toward a hidden end. 
 
 Yet he gives hope's anthem flight, 
 
 Winged for the remotest star, 
 Till he thinks his little light 
 
 Center of the things that are ; 
 Blind to causes reaching back, 
 
 Chains that bind him to the past ; 
 Keeping his predestined track 
 
 By life's riddle unharassed. 
 
 And the cycles come and go, 
 
 Fraught he knows not with what doom, 
 Whether great with joy or woe, 
 
 Light supreme or endless gloom. 
 By a power beyond his ken 
 
 Driven in clouds of fiery chaff. 
 All his sum of wisdom, then, 
 
 Were to neither weep nor laugh. 
 
 73 
 
THE CRY OF THE DEFEATED 
 
 With a sigh for the light that has vanished, 
 For the hght with which youth was o'ercast, 
 
 Lo, I stand in a purposeless present 
 And gaze on the future aghast. 
 
 The cause — ah, the cause — who can find it ? 
 
 What hell spark that slept in the brain 
 Made the dream and the hope, the aspiring. 
 
 Yield but fruitage of passion and pain? 
 
 When I leaned on the breast of my mother 
 And vowed to make goodness my goal, 
 
 Wept to think of the evil that menaced, 
 Was the cause lurking then in my soul ? 
 
 Did it spring from a fountain ancestral ? 
 
 Was the spirit dragged down by the flesh ? 
 Did the stars that shone bright in hope's heaven 
 
 Blind my eyes to the sins that enmesh ? 
 
 Whose the blame ? Is it mine ? Am I victim 
 Of the pulse beats that made me aspire? 
 
 Did my heart glow with song in the morning 
 But to perish at last in its fire? 
 
 All in vain ; none can tell why men falter 
 And miss the full fruitage of life. 
 
 Ask him who aspired in his dreaming 
 To ban the world's discord and strife. 
 
 And you with the tongue that condemns me — 
 Do you come with a message divine ? 
 
 Or do you but seek to dissemble 
 
 Your shortcomings in censure of mine ? 
 
 It is true that my days have been barren — 
 That my pathway is dreary and lone. 
 
 But why should you tire me with precepts ? 
 Is the soul of man not his own ? 
 
 Did God give you breath but to waste it — 
 Give you wealth to be hid from His view ? 
 
 Fool, see that your breath in His balance 
 Outweigh not the things that you do. 
 
 74 
 
I have failed. What of that ? Mine the ruin ? 
 
 Nay ; let him mouth that falsehood who can. 
 For I know that the failure strikes deeper — 
 
 That in me fails the striving of man. 
 
 He has made a stout servant of matter ; 
 
 Steam, the flame of the cloud do his will. 
 But they fail where he sees the far splendor 
 
 Of ideals that beckon him still. 
 
 Still pursuing a phantom of glory, 
 
 The thrill of red combat he feels 
 And dreams he hears music of progress 
 
 In an impotent spinning of wheels. 
 
 Blind fool, still to think the world's welfare 
 
 Lies alone in mere seeking of pelf. 
 That has lifted, but love must yet lift him 
 
 From the dreary dead level of self. 
 
 Not love with the hand of a miser 
 
 Made the gift of a few to the few ; 
 But love touching everything human. 
 
 Creeds, customs, with radiance new — 
 
 Must vivify laws, institutions. 
 
 Unstinted, world-wide in its sweep. 
 Or, undone by his own sordid scheming, 
 
 Where but lately he strode man must creep. 
 
 For the progress he boasts will slip backward 
 
 If self still in self find its meed — 
 If the Christ whom he crucifies daily 
 
 Live not in the heart of the deed. 
 
 Waste of breath ; soul is weighed down by matter, 
 And the flesh by the spirit is worn. 
 
 Night has always o'ershadowed the human ; 
 The divine faintly gleams in its morn. 
 
 And I dream not — aspire not. No longer 
 Is my heart by hope's melody stirred. 
 
 Death in life is my portion. What boots it ? 
 What am I that my voice should be heard ? 
 
 75 
 
A SERMON FOR CYNICS 
 
 In the sun's glow the hairy cave man saw 
 Now good unbounded, now a baleful eye ; 
 
 Noted but when they fell, in brutish awe. 
 The stars on high. 
 
 In sullen rage against his brother man 
 
 With tooth and tiger hand and club he fought. 
 
 Then came the chief who with his ruthless clan 
 For progress wrought. 
 
 The selfish tyrant, building up a state. 
 
 Made broader still the bond of brotherhood ; 
 
 Then he who sought, with sword unstained by hate, 
 The common good. 
 
 So on from age to age, from clime to clime, 
 For war's red spoil heroic gamesters diced, 
 
 Progressing slowly to the appointed time — 
 And then the Christ : 
 
 Christ with the soul of progress in His life, 
 The music in His heart, upon His tongue 
 
 Words of a song at length to banish strife, 
 By nations sung : 
 
 76 
 
The song of love which gave to beauty birth 
 
 And wakes through beauty what is best in men ; 
 
 Which in the bards and sages of old earth 
 Found tongue and pen. 
 
 'Tis true like-hearted peoples stand apart 
 In the unholy pride of court and camp; 
 
 Still sounds the wolfish discord of the mart, 
 The warrior's tramp. 
 
 Yet men no more in bestial fury fight 
 Meeting as strangers in the wilderness, 
 
 But moved by civic ardor seek the light 
 Through storm and stress. 
 
 The wand of beauty, vibrant with the thrill 
 Of hearts uplifted ir. love's later beams 
 
 To duty's summit, stirs the dreamer still 
 To nobler dreams. 
 
 And fairer heights of progress will be won. 
 With toilsome steps irrevocably slow ; 
 
 Brighter from altruistic dawn to dawn 
 The future glow. 
 
 77 
 
Mid- Victorian Salmagundi 
 
 79 
 
WHEN POETS SING 
 
 It takes a lot of force to move 
 
 The mind's complex machinery 
 When poets sing of friendship, love, 
 Religion, science, scenery. 
 The wheels go buzzing round 
 When poets spurn the ground 
 And warble airs 
 That banish cares 
 In floods of soulful sound. 
 
THE TALKER 
 
 (Relating to the monoculations of a youth with senatorial 
 aspirations) 
 
 There is a man whose windy ways 
 Are sometimes simply shocking — 
 
 A harmless seeming wight withal, 
 But he is fond of talking. 
 
 He meets me on the Avenue, 
 My further progress staying. 
 
 And if he could he'd hold me there 
 From Christmas until haying. 
 
 He talks about the weather till 
 
 I'm on the point of weeping ; 
 The pedigrees of all who pass 
 
 Are in his windy keeping. 
 
 He talks of horses, baseball, dogs, 
 
 Of music and of pictures. 
 And, oh, the long-drawn agonies 
 
 Of his dramatic strictures. 
 
 Whenever we may chance to meet. 
 
 Urbane and condescending, 
 He treats me to a flow of words 
 
 Which rushes on unending. 
 
 Even when I fain would sit and dream. 
 Old-fashioned fancies nursing 
 
 He'll come with platitudes ornate. 
 My sweet, sad thoughts dispersing. 
 
 If incidentally I speak 
 
 Of by-gone days romantic, 
 With details of his own calf love 
 
 He nearly drives me frantic. 
 
 82 
 
If I should fall down stairs, sure he 
 
 Must detail in extenso 
 The story of the fate of men 
 
 Whose souls were hurried hence so. 
 
 If I've a boil, he tells me how 
 
 His cousin's aunt's great uncle 
 Was once afflicted on the neck 
 
 By an immense carbuncle. 
 
 Ah, me, the stories he has told 
 
 By wholesale and by retail. 
 Including the remotest facts 
 
 And details of a detail. 
 
 But though with small talk he'll ne'er shine 
 
 Mid merry lads and lasses. 
 Nor in the social function's glow, 
 
 Yet he can stir the masses. 
 
 In short his teeming brain is geared 
 To words unchecked and flowing ; 
 
 In Freedom's name he soars aloft 
 As his renown keeps growing. 
 
 Truth crushed to earth rises again ; 
 
 That's what he spurns the ground for. 
 He hasn't reached the Senate yet, 
 
 But that's the place he's bound for. 
 
 83 
 
CONCERNING BILL'S PLATFORM 
 
 I'm a somewhat cross-grained geezer, and my ways are often 
 
 rash 
 When I'm heated up on home brew with an enemy to thrash. 
 
 But I find as I grow older I ain't quite so full of kicks 
 
 At the way the world is managed, and I've soured on politics. 
 
 I no longer buck the tariff in unlimited debate ; 
 To promote the human uplift I don't care to agitate. 
 
 When it seems the car of progress from its course has slumped 
 
 and slid 
 I don't figure how to right it with the proper kind of skid. 
 
 Yet the world don't seem to wobble since the thought got in my 
 
 nut 
 That I'd try to disremember how to lift it from the rut. 
 
 And I've learned that wife and children, if you only treat them 
 
 straight, 
 Make about the finest uplift that I've heard of up to date. 
 
 For I ain't much meek and prayerful, and I guess my mortal life 
 Would have turned to ways ungodly if it wasn't for my wife. 
 
 For when she has got me cornered, I am bound to say I won't 
 As she lamps me, fond and anxious, with her, "Please, Bill, 
 dont." 
 
 And the children, bright and smiling, when I come home tired 
 
 at night 
 With the Devil at my elbow, rowdy angels, set me right. 
 
 So I've lost much faith in kickers, who allow their thoughts 
 
 to roam — 
 While they try to lift creation — from the uplift of the home. 
 
 Though they sing a song of progress from the low notes to 
 
 high C, 
 They perhaps might learn a lesson from my family and me. 
 
 84 
 
THE WANDERER 
 
 I love to wander where the birds 
 
 Are warbHng all the day ; 
 I love to wander where the herds 
 
 Are browsing by the way. 
 
 I love to wander far from home, 
 Fanned by the woodland breeze, 
 
 Or watch the gay old north wind comb 
 The whiskers of the trees. 
 
 I love to wander where the sea 
 Roars wild and unconfined ; 
 
 But best of all it pleases me 
 To wander in my mind. 
 
 85 
 
THE EXTRA-INNING GAME 
 
 Oh, the pent-up, sizzHng madness, not extracted from a jug, 
 Of an extra-inning contest, when you've got the baseball bug ; 
 When the home team's filled the bases and you fear 'twill end 
 
 in rout 
 And the biffer with the swat-stick lines a winning bingle out. 
 Then the calmest heart-beats quicken and the citizen sedate 
 With umpiricide gets frantic or with howling glee elate. 
 
 And it levels all conditions. Saint and sinner, rich and poor. 
 
 Little Willie, pa, and grandpa join in one delirious roar. 
 
 E'en the poor, conceited pinhead who would like to steal your 
 
 girl 
 Is a red-hot bosom crony in that mad fraternal whirl, 
 And you're chummy with your neighbor of the fierce, house- 
 breaking mug 
 When the home team's full of ginger and you've got the base- 
 ball bug. 
 
 Oh, your heart grows strangely mellow, and you're glad that 
 
 you're a fan 
 In that frenzied demonstration of the brotherhood of man. 
 For the world's a blissful bedlam, and all other joys grow tame 
 When the home team's winning rally ends an extra-inning 
 
 game. 
 
RHYME OF THE LITTLE FAN 
 
 Since our ball club got busy 
 
 And made the champs feel sore, 
 
 My ma at night's uneasy 
 Until she hears the score. 
 
 Each day in the grandstand pa 
 Is seated with the gang, 
 
 And even good old grandpa 
 Is slinging baseball slang. 
 
 Out where the bleachers beller 
 My brother Bill's in view. 
 
 And sister and her feller 
 Have caught the fever, too. 
 
 The rag no more I'm chewing 
 Since teacher's ceased to frown. 
 
 You bet, when something's doing, 
 This is a baseball town. 
 
 81 
 
THE OYSTER 
 
 As the air becomes chilly and nipping 
 
 And the wind whistles wild through the trees, 
 
 Then the form of the oyster comes slipping 
 Into dreams of the dishes that please. 
 
 He is good, whether stewed or roasted, 
 
 Or frittered, or broiled, or fried, 
 Or steamed and dished up almost hid 
 
 In his juice, or when raw he doth glide 
 
 Down the primrose path to the stomach. 
 
 Impelled by an ecstatic gulp. 
 Where old Hunger's voice he doth dumb make — 
 
 Blessed lump of comestible pulp. 
 
 It is true that his touch is creepy 
 With the ghostly damps of the sea ; 
 
 That he's soggy, and solemn, and sleepy. 
 And that never a smile hath he. 
 
 But though he is briny with weeping 
 For a past that is past, yet a balm 
 
 For life's little trials is sleeping 
 In the depths of his infinite calm. 
 
 Whether stewed, broiled, fried, or frittered, 
 
 He just fills the epicure's maw, 
 And the man can't be wholly embittered 
 
 Who has learned to engulf him raw. 
 
 So with gladness we honor the oyster 
 
 In a mild epicurean song ; 
 For he makes human hearts with much joy stir 
 
 As he glides down the throats of the throng. 
 
OPENING REMARKS OF THE OYSTER 
 
 I am the wingless bird 
 Of the sea 
 
 Whose song is heard 
 In a sizzle of cookery. 
 And though I utter no sound, 
 Raw on my mission bound, 
 The plunk of my form shall serve, 
 Soft on the dinner nerve. 
 To release the music pent 
 In the hunger-keyed, soulfully sensitive 
 gastrical instrument. 
 
 List, oh, listen to me : 
 
 I would set you from hunger free, 
 
 Not when from down below 
 
 Arises, unchecked in its flow 
 
 And uproarious, the shout 
 
 That clamors for sausage and kraut, 
 
 For cabbage or greens or kail. 
 
 Or some sort of feed without fail. 
 
 The inner man being stirred 
 
 By visions of food deferred. 
 
 But when arises a cry 
 
 For a dish less prosaic than pie, 
 
 And you sigh 
 
 For a victim delicious and frail, 
 
 Your longing I satisfy. 
 
 For my juice is the soul of me, 
 
 Soul of the soul of the sea. 
 
 And the mortal who eats 
 
 Shall feel in his cardiac beats 
 
 The songs of the shells 
 
 That inhabit the submarine dells, 
 
 And he 
 
 All untroubled shall swim 
 
 In a restfulness born of the sea, 
 
 Brought up to the Ego of Him 
 
 By the Ego of Me. 
 
 89 
 
THE PROOFREADER AND THE BARD 
 
 The intelligent proofreader perhaps deserves his name ; 
 
 It may be he does not trespass on the sacred scroll of fame; fcj 
 
 And no doubt his reputation, firmly based on solid prose, ^ 
 
 Can withstand the sad recital of a humble poet's woes, 
 
 Yet I'd like to make the statement, and I want to put it strong,^ 
 
 That he's not a brilliant figure in the starlit field of song; 
 
 And I'll dwell for just a moment on my own unhappy fate 
 
 As a melancholy instance of the truth of what I state. 
 
 When my heart was young and tender, I admired a maiden fair,] 
 And I tried in words poetic how I loved her to declare. 
 In the Pumpkin County Eagle I essayed to print those words] 
 Which, upon the wings of fancy, fluttered forth like singing] 
 
 birds. 
 I informed her that her glance divine was all that could control! 
 The tempest of the ocean of my passion-drifted soul ; 
 In the purest strains of love and truth I let my passion speak. 
 Alas, I might as well have sung in Arabic or Greek. 
 
 For that aforesaid fountain of encyclopedic worth 
 
 Made the precious offering of my muse a theme for fiendish 
 
 mirth. 
 In the song I called the maiden " the sweet torment of my life," 
 But that son of Satan made it " the sweet torment of my wife." 
 Fondly dreaming that at last to me her gentle thoughts inclined, 
 I exclaimed, " My heart grows happy in a deep repose of mind." 
 Imagine how my spirits fell — with what a sickening thud — 
 When I read, " My heart grows sappy in a damp repose of mud." 
 
 Not to mention other changes which 'twere folly to repeat, 
 He implanted corns and bunions on the song's poetic feet ; 
 And the maiden's heart grew frigid, and her smiles were not 
 
 for me, 
 And thus a Shakespeare No. 2 was lost to poesy. 
 So the budding bard I'd caution not to trust our learned friend 
 When the wireless telegrams of song from heart to heart he'd 
 
 send. 
 Unless, perchance, he wants to strew the garden paths of time 
 With the mutilated remnants of the passion flowers of rhyme. 
 
 90 
 
A REALIST 
 
 The wrinkles on grandmother's face 
 
 He pictured a la mode, 
 But failed to catch the warmth of soul 
 
 In her dear eyes that glowed. 
 
 Grandfather's stoop and tinted nose 
 
 Remorselessly he drew, 
 But failed to bring grandfather's wealth 
 
 Of sentiment to view. 
 
 Purblind he strolled mid hothouse plants 
 
 Beneath a roof of glass. 
 Unconscious that his sluggish steps 
 
 Fell not on summer grass. 
 
 91 
 
AN EASTER TRANSFORMATION 
 
 'Twas but a hat. An Easter prize 
 The passing shoppers deemed it, 
 
 Though, trusting my untutored eyes, 
 I never would have dreamed it. 
 
 To me it seemed a tawdry thing, 
 And hardly worth a dollar — 
 
 A feeble travesty of spring. 
 Albeit gay with color. 
 
 A maiden purchased it, and now 
 The flowers which inwreathe it 
 
 Bloom fair as Eden in the glow 
 Of her dark eyes beneath it. 
 
 92 
 
AMBITION 
 
 Ambition is a kite which flown too high, 
 
 Drenched in the clouds of chance, drops from the sky. 
 
 THE DEMOCRACY OF BEAUTY 
 
 Nosegays by tired and toilworn fingers clipped 
 Outrank bouquets from royal gardens stripped. 
 
 THE FUTILITY OF PESSIMISM 
 
 The doleful drip of pessimistic tears 
 Wears not the restless millstone of the years. 
 
 THE MISER'S CLUTCH 
 
 The miser's clutch upon his hoarded gold 
 Is with the frost of men's repugnance cold. 
 
 93 
 
THE CYNIC 
 
 The gems that grace true manhood he doth hide 
 Within the soul's dark cabinet of pride. 
 
 THE BLACK AND WHITE OF IT 
 
 When she said, with a smile that was full of good cheer, 
 
 " The Devil's not black as he's painted," 
 He replied, " Nor as white as he's whitewashed, dear " — 
 And then she just naturally fainted. 
 
 A POET ON THE LINKS 
 
 Not mine the golf links where men go 
 
 To join in sport exciting. 
 Give me, when wintry breezes blow, 
 
 The sausage links inviting. 
 
 94 
 
THE MAD QUEST 
 
 The world is wide ; 
 
 Then who would bide 
 In one dull spot forever? 
 
 Heart, in our quest 
 
 We'll brook no rest, 
 And yield to sorrow never. 
 
 Then, care, good-bye ; 
 
 My heart and I 
 Will range the world together. 
 
 Fate's cup we'll quaff 
 
 And bravely laugh, 
 Come foul or sunny weather. 
 
 We fare not forth 
 
 To try our worth 
 Gainst armored knight or dragon ; 
 
 For we erstwhile 
 
 Of woman's guile 
 Drank deep a bitter flagon. 
 
 And gaily meek, 
 
 A land we seek 
 Where truth with love is blended 
 
 In woman's breast; 
 
 And our mad quest 
 Will end when time is ended. 
 
 95 
 
A LOVE SOPHIST 
 
 FROZEN 
 
 Because I have wooed without winning 
 And sit here so tranquil and cool, 
 
 You call me a passionless stoic 
 Who am only a heart-frozen fool. 
 
 The sunlight on perilous icebergs 
 Glows afar with a semblance of heat. 
 
 So the seeming soul-warmth of the distance 
 Froze my heart as I knelt at her feet. 
 
 REVIVIFIED 
 
 Why, yes, little maiden, I loved once. 
 Or thought I did, ere I saw you ; 
 
 But the fair one was cold as an iceberg 
 And, as I drew near, chilled me through. 
 
 Alas, my poor heart was well frozen 
 As I knelt like a fool at her feet, 
 
 And — By Jove, I believe it is melting 
 In the warmth of your glances, my sweet. 
 
 96 
 
THE LOVE-SICK OCULIST 
 
 Now in this roseate dawn of love, 
 Which every joy of life enhances, 
 
 My ardent thoughts divinely rove 
 And grow poetic in her glances. 
 
 And though she yields not to my song, 
 Restrained by some sweet maiden scruple, 
 
 ril strive to teach her love as long 
 As in her eyes I find a pupil. 
 
 97 
 
THE JILTED BARD 
 
 HIS SONG 
 
 He never knew until he loved 
 How sweet a thing is melancholy. 
 
 He never knew how sweet is love 
 Until he sang love's sweet finale. 
 
 HIS HEART 
 
 She laughed at him and at his verses ; 
 
 Dainty little head she tossed. 
 Every gossip now rehearses 
 
 How he wooed and how he lost. 
 
 Woman's love by poets vaunted 
 Gold will buy it in the mart. 
 
 HI he fares who fate-undaunted 
 Makes an inkwell of his heart. 
 
 98 
 
A POST-VICTORIAN ANOMALY 
 
 A poet won a charming bride, 
 A cultured modern beauty, 
 
 Of whom he sang with manly pride. 
 As was his bounden duty. 
 
 And when his first-bom came along. 
 While joy did overflow him, 
 
 He said : " The kid shall live in song ; 
 He'll make a first-class poem." 
 
 Ah, who can tell what gloom is hid 
 In hopes the fancy nurses? 
 
 While he composed the little kid. 
 His wife composed the verses. 
 
 99 
 
A NATURALISTIC WARBLER 
 
 When the robin is singing high up in the tree 
 
 And his music the memory brings 
 Of the days when my heart from love's thraldom was free, 
 
 Do you think of me, love, when he sings ? 
 
 Do you think of me, love, when the stars twinkle bright 
 Making sweeter the thoughts that you think ? 
 
 Oh, surely you long for my smile. Am I right? 
 Do you think of me, love, when they twink ? 
 
 When the brook with a whisper of song ripples by. 
 
 As over the landscape it slips, 
 For the sight of my manly physique do you sigh ? 
 
 Do you think of me, love, when it rips? 
 
 Do you think of me, love, as I warble so sweet 
 
 While the ozone of joy I absorb ? 
 Without my glad song would life be incomplete? 
 
 Do you think of me, love, when I warb ? 
 
 100 
 
A PESSIMISTIC ADDENDUM 
 
 " There's ample room on top," the sage 
 Remarked ; then growing sadder, 
 
 " But that can not his grief assuage 
 Who's jostled from the ladder." 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S INCONSISTENCY 
 
 " The good die young," the poet wrote 
 In language grave and weighty, 
 And then to prove that he was wrong 
 He passed away at eighty. 
 
 101 
 
THE SAD IRON 
 
 An instrument for ironing clothes; a flatiron." — "Webster's Dictionary. 
 
 Sad iron, oh, forgive the bard if haply 
 
 His feeble words shall fail to do thee proud ; 
 
 For thou wouldst understand his deep compassion 
 If he could only whisper it aloud. 
 
 With what enduring patience dost thou linger 
 Upon the outspread cloth, just damply wet — 
 
 The manly sock, the shaplier female stocking 
 And eke my lady's ruffled chemisette ! 
 
 Thou art the type of those who worship duty 
 
 In hodiernal acts of saintly toil. 
 Ah ! thou dost teach mankind a needed lesson, 
 
 And yet thou ne'er didst monkey with a boil. 
 
 Oh, scornful Iron, stoutly uncomplaining, 
 Domestic slave within these human walls ! 
 
 Oh, tireless traveler over cuffs and collars, 
 Shirt-bosoms, underwear, and overalls ! 
 
 Oh, Iron, wast thou once serenely wafted 
 
 O'er seas of moonlight in thy cushioned barge, 
 
 Ere on these shores of time at last it stranded? 
 Surely thy foot not always was so large ! 
 
 102 
 
Didst thou once linger in the land of fairy, 
 A flitting spirit of the moonlit night, 
 
 With no sad routine of domestic duty 
 To dull the edges of thy appetite ? 
 
 Or didst thou once, in ages prehistoric 
 
 Cleave the hot air on bright asbestos wings, 
 
 Companion of the gruesome pterodactyl, 
 And such like grisly, grim, terrific things ? 
 
 And were thy wings in some bright pre-existence 
 Shorn from thee by the ruthless shears of fate, 
 
 That here we find thee urged o'er textile fabrics 
 By alien hands, supremely desolate ? 
 
 My words are vain. Alas, thou wilt not answer 
 Wrapped in thy mantle of eternal scorn. 
 
 Yet to the poet thou shalt voice thy sorrow 
 If ever thou dost tread upon his corn. 
 
 103 
 
A DUBIOUS IDEALIST 
 
 Oh, maiden, maiden sweetly true, 
 
 For thee I've waited long ; 
 I've wooed thee oft in twilight dreams 
 
 And wooed thee oft in song. 
 
 Reveal thyself unto me now 
 
 And let me take thy hand ; 
 Before me coy, yet coyly kind. 
 
 In fleshly sweetness stand. 
 
 Oh, maiden, maiden of my dreams, 
 
 Oh, maiden sweetly true, 
 I then will cease to woo in rhyme — 
 
 Will like a lover woo. 
 
 And maiden fair or maiden dark. 
 
 As sweetly you may be. 
 Then Fate will smile and cease to frown 
 
 If I am true to thee. 
 
 104 
 
INSPIRATION 
 
 She dwells where manly thought forever strives 
 To tame the restless fool's heart of a boy, 
 
 (^nd o'er man's life regretful Sorrow croons, 
 Let through the fields of song by pensive Joy. 
 
 LOVE AND FAME 
 
 In vain he sought for fame — the way was dark- 
 Until a girl's glance lighted up his soul. 
 
 And love's clear star grew from a tiny spark 
 To guide his faltering footsteps to the goal. 
 
 SWEET OBLIVION 
 
 Oh, fair young girl, with instinctive art 
 
 Dispelling my sordid fretting, 
 You will doubtless forget me when we part, 
 
 But if kindly be your forgetting. 
 Why, lost in the Lethe of your warm heart. 
 
 My fate were too sweet for regretting. 
 
 105 
 
THE WOMAN-HATER 
 
 Having ventured the question of questions, 
 He writhes with the bitter smart 
 
 Of her glances so tenderly potent 
 That rankle in his heart. 
 
 Yet wait till the season passes 
 
 Of his first sad, thoughtless plaints, 
 
 And he ceases to place life's journey 
 As who by the wayside faints. 
 
 And her glances feathered with laughter 
 And tipped with the secret of pain, 
 
 No more in his heart they rankle. 
 But they rankle in his brain. 
 
 106 
 
A NEW BALLAD OF THE OLD HOME 
 
 You may sing of homes of childhood far away down on the 
 farm, 
 Where in innocence bucolic once you played ; 
 There's a home down in the city, nineteen stories up, whose 
 charm 
 Throws the antiquated farmhouse in the shade. 
 There's no honeysuckle twining, and no wild flowers blossom 
 there. 
 And no birds so sweetly warble, and all that ; 
 Yet of homes to be remembered there is none that will com- 
 pare 
 With that dear old little home up in the flat. 
 
 Though it knew no joyous ditties of a tuneful rustic band. 
 
 It was filled with sounds, whose memory makes me sad. 
 Of the man who plunked the banjo and the girl who banged 
 the grand 
 
 And the chap that scraped the bargain-counter Strad. 
 But my children reached a dozen, and I had to occupy 
 
 Other quarters, where there's room to swing a cat ; 
 For 'tis quite beyond all reason to increase and multiply 
 
 In that dear old little home up in the flat. 
 
 107 
 
THE CATS 
 
 Hear the warbling of the cats — 
 
 Merry cats! 
 Oh, I love to hear the music of their midnight nightly 
 spats ! 
 And they waltz around and frisk all, 
 
 In the icy air of night 
 In a way so weird and brisk all, 
 While their shapely tails they whisk all, 
 
 With a Cataline delight ! 
 Keeping time with their tails. 
 Like a lot of Runic flails, 
 To the concat-catenation, sung in sundry sharps and flats, 
 Of a canticle on rats, 
 
 Rats, rats, rats. 
 To a wild carniverous canticle on rats ! 
 
 Hear the turbulent Tom cats — 
 
 Daddy cats ! 
 How the catapultic bootjacks interrupt their fiendish chats ! 
 In the darkness of the night 
 How their ghoulish outcries smite 
 Ears polite ! 
 From their catacoustic throats 
 
 An intense 
 Cataphonic ditty floats 
 To the proud prize cat who listens, while she gloats, 
 
 On the fence — 
 Ah, the tabby cat who listens, while she gloats, 
 To the surging cataclysm of their wild catarrhal notes ! 
 
 108 
 
Hear the hoarse grandfather cats — 
 
 Aged cats! 
 How they make us long to grasp a score of good brickbats ! 
 They have caught a bad catarrh 
 
 Caterwauhng at the moon; 
 You may hear them from afar 
 Out of tune, 
 In a clamorous appealing to the aged tabby cat, 
 In a futile mad appealing to the deaf old tabby cat ! 
 Shrieking higher, higher, higher, 
 Like a demon in a fire — 
 While the little kitten cats. 
 
 Infant cats, 
 Sing an emulous sweet ditty of their love for juicy rats! 
 
 That's 
 But a rudimental spasm of the capers of the cats. 
 
 109 
 
AN APPALLING FALLING 
 
 Alas, my soul it doth appall — 
 In fact it makes me grieve — 
 
 That when the leaves begin to fall 
 The fall begins to leave. 
 
 AN AUTUMNAL FANCY 
 
 Yes the year is growing old ; 
 
 Soon he'll don his icy wear 
 And begin to comb the cold 
 
 Snowflake dandruff from his hair. 
 
 110 
 
THE SNORER 
 
 Oh, I like to hear the snorer 
 
 When the summer nights are hot. 
 And I'm tossing, tired and restless, 
 
 On my comfortable cot, 
 And no other sound arises 
 
 Save the baby's gleeful " Goo ! " 
 For it's full of latent music. 
 
 And it thrills me through and through- 
 Schaughwhaoughoo ! 
 
 How it slams the gates of slumber, 
 
 While the tomcat stands aloof. 
 As it gushes through the window, 
 
 And then rumbles o'er the roof ! 
 All the neighboring sinners dang it 
 
 Till the night is black and blue, 
 And the saints forget the language 
 
 Of the beautiful and true. 
 Schaughwhaoughoo ! 
 
 Every one breathes maledictions 
 
 Hardly fit for rhymes polite. 
 As it slips and slides and snoozles 
 
 Through the watches of the night. 
 Ripping restful calm to tatters. 
 
 Full of discords not a few. 
 Like the slumber-song primeval 
 
 Of the chorus of the Zoo. 
 Schaughwhaoughoo ! 
 
 Ill 
 
THREE OF A KIND 
 
 A teamster once upon a time 
 
 Devoutly loved a girl named Nancy 
 
 And tried to tell his love in rhyme 
 Because he had a teeming fancy. 
 
 Although the farmer's land was free 
 From mortgages and never weedy, 
 
 The maiden would not heed his plea 
 
 Because the clothes he wore were seedy. 
 
 A song about his girl he wrote, 
 
 Inspired thereto by Cupid's pranks ; 
 Offered it to the Bingtown Goat. 
 
 Declined with thanks. 
 He then, his feelings in a whirl 
 
 (Ah, love is strong, and some draw blanks) 
 Offered the poet to the girl. 
 
 Declined with thanks. 
 
 112 
 
IN ZION ALLEY 
 
 Just listen at the bilin' of the taters in the pot 
 
 An' the music of the f ryin' of the po'k. 
 Oh, it make a cullud pussun forget his mou'nful lot 
 
 An' the gallin' of the earthly yoke. 
 For the burden of the day am at las' laid down, 
 
 An' the poor man fills up his pipe 
 An' dreams of the time when he'll wear the res'ful crown 
 An' the fruit of heavenly mercy'll be ripe. 
 Put the dishes on the table, Sally ; 
 Call in the chilluns from the alley. 
 Cris' an' juicy am the po'k 
 An' the tater skins is broke; 
 Call in the chilluns, Sally. 
 
 At the endin' of the day but it jus' am gran' 
 
 In the wa'mness of the kitchin for to smoke, 
 An' the bes' the earth can give am the po'tion of the man 
 
 With a relish for the fatness of the po'k. 
 For the wind am aseekin' the crack in the wall 
 
 An' sneakin' underneaf the do' ; 
 But the Lawd has shed his bounty whar the cullud baby 
 crawl 
 Aworritin' the cat upon the flo'. 
 Put the dishes on the table, Sally ; 
 Call in the chilluns from the alley. 
 Cris' an' juicy am the po'k 
 An' the tater skins is broke; 
 Call in the chilluns, Sally. 
 
 113 
 
THE GOSPEL MELON 
 
 The gospel melon am mighty good meat — 
 
 Come along, sinnah, an' try it. 
 Red to the rine an' gospel sweet — 
 
 Wages of sin can't buy it. 
 
 Come along sinnah, an' get your slice. 
 
 Why do you stand thar waitin' ? 
 Fresh an' cool from the gospel ice. 
 
 (Hear the gates of hell a-gratin'). 
 
 The gospel melon am not for sale ; 
 
 It am free for the meanes' sinnah. 
 Oh, you will weep when your slice gits stale 
 
 An' you eats of the Debbil's dinnah. 
 
 The mouth of hell it am deep an' wide 
 
 (Hear them gates agratin') ; 
 Don't let the chance of salvashun slide. 
 
 Sinnah, why is you waitin' ? 
 
 The meat am red and the rine am thin ; 
 
 My heart with its praise am swellin'. 
 Oh, sinnah man, leave the fruits of sin 
 
 An' partake of the gospel melon. 
 
 It melts in the mouth like manna of old 
 (The gates of hell am agratin'). 
 
 An' it can't be bought with the earthly goldo 
 Sinnah, why is you waitin' ? 
 
 114 
 
A PRACTICAL PUNSTER 
 
 Old Jones was stout and fat and bald, 
 
 And eke a jovial man 
 Who wrestled with terrestrial cares 
 
 Upon the jolly plan. 
 
 And just to show his scorn of death 
 And add one chestnut more 
 
 To that huge pile of mouldering jokes 
 Which strew this mortal shore, 
 
 He brought from Egypt o'er the sea 
 
 A huge sarcophagus. 
 And unto his inquiring friends 
 
 Explained the matter thus : 
 
 Therein I wish to be interred," 
 
 And added with a laugh, 
 ' Carved on its prehistoric sides, 
 
 Be this my epitaph — 
 
 " Rocked in a cradle was his form 
 At birth, and, when death's shock 
 Has sent him hence, 'tis meet that he 
 Be cradled in a rock." 
 
 115 
 
HIS TRAGIC SOUL 
 
 Buskin, the great tragedian, lay stretched upon his couch ; 
 Each time he stirred he muttered a not very tragic " Ouch." 
 
 Alas, some fiend through Buskin's legs had thrust rheumatic 
 
 darts ; 
 Those towers of tragic strength refused to play their kingly 
 
 parts. 
 
 His friend, Bill Stagestride, came and stood in grief by Bus- 
 kin's bed, 
 And, hoping thus to cheer him up, in hearty accents said : 
 
 " Though overthrown, still do you look your regal self, by jing." 
 Then Buskin's tragic soul found voice: "Aye, every inch 
 aching." 
 
 n6 
 
AN AQUATIC TRAGEDY 
 
 Bill Rowboat boasted strength galore, 
 
 For fame aquatic sought ; 
 With skill he always feathered oar, 
 
 A crab he never caught. 
 
 In fact, he ne'er came out in force 
 
 Until he was afloat; 
 Although he never rode a horse, 
 
 He often rowed a boat. 
 
 In training Bill with schemes was fraught ; 
 
 No chances would he take. 
 He ate round steak because he thought 
 
 'Twould help him round the stake. 
 
 A red-cheeked girl Bill's fancy struck, 
 
 With eyes as black as sloes ; 
 And often when his rows he took 
 
 He took indeed his Rose. 
 
 " Why is your boat, when not in use. 
 Like Yorick's skull ? Canst tell ? " 
 One day Rose asked ; then laughed, " You goose, 
 'Tis but an empty shell." 
 
 Bill's guffaw rang out strong and full. 
 And then this shot he fired : 
 " Your joke quite fills my empty skull," 
 And, saying that, expired. 
 
 117 
 
LOVE SONG OF A JAY CHAUFFEUR 
 
 My auto stands beside the curb ; 
 
 Come spin therein with me 
 Where city sounds shall not disturb 
 
 Reposeful reverie. 
 
 (Chug-chug!) With animating speed 
 
 Past city blocks we flash, 
 And hurry by the fastest steed 
 
 That feels a driver's lash. 
 
 Ah, now we've reached the limit where. 
 
 As faster still we go 
 (We missed that coal truck by a hair) , 
 
 Bucolic breezes blow. 
 
 And as we leave the city street 
 
 And whirl through bosky dells 
 I seem to hear the voices sweet 
 
 Of joyful wedding bells. 
 
 Yet there is sadness in their chime, 
 
 For you, unyielding still — 
 Had I not seen that rock in time 
 
 There would have been a spill. 
 
 Oh, let your heart be free from fear 
 
 And banish cold reserve. 
 You're frightened. Can't you trust me, dear? 
 
 (That was a nasty curve.) 
 
 118 
 
With love all nature is agog 
 
 And whispers of my vow; 
 Then why with coldness — Drat that hog. 
 
 (Chug-chug.) I've ditched a cow. 
 
 With kindly looks dispel love's night. 
 
 Oh, brighten love's young dream 
 With tender glances which — Hold tight ; 
 
 There comes a six-ox team. 
 
 (Kerzip.) By Jove, it's raining hair 
 And horns and hoofs and hides ; 
 
 Yet, like the love I'd fain declare 
 Our auto gently glides. 
 
 My heart is breaking, and love's wraith 
 But mocks my hopeless mood — 
 
 Jove, there's a log-chain in our path, 
 Planted by yokels rude. 
 
 (Chug-chug.) Good-bye, love. (Zip-kerboom.) 
 
 Thank Heaven, you are not hurt, 
 And visions bright my soul illume. 
 Though sprawling in the dirt. 
 
 For your dear eyes the truth impart ; 
 
 Your love no more I'll beg, 
 And you will mend my broken heart 
 
 While doctors mend my leg. 
 
 113 
 
Obsolete and Obsolescent Jokes in Jingles 
 
 121 
 
JOKES IN JINGLES 
 
 JANUARY 
 
 The New Year Resolution Joke 
 
 Was once an easy winner 
 When Dry Resolves went up in smoke 
 
 To mock the Sad-eyed Sinner. 
 
 The Joke of Dear Old Mother-in-law, 
 As sprung by Jesters rude, 
 
 If often desperately Raw 
 As well as beastly Crude. 
 
 Of Jokes about Banana Peels 
 
 Today there is a dearth, 
 Though once they flung men by the heels, 
 
 Provoking Peals of Mirth. 
 
 123 
 
FEBRUARY 
 
 The Ground Hog Joke's mossgrown, ah, me ; 
 
 Yet once 'twas paragraphed 
 With such uncurbed Jocosity 
 
 Even the Ground Hog laughed. 
 
 No more we greet with pleasure keen 
 The Umbrella Joke well pickled, 
 
 Though when it first got busy e'en 
 The Umbrella's ribs it tickled. 
 
 The Joke about Gigantic Feet — 
 
 Feet of Chicago's Lasses — 
 No more can waken Laughter sweet 
 
 And rouse to mirth the Masses. 
 
 By the Boarding House Chicken Joke possibly still 
 The Boarders with mirth may be stricken. 
 
 But you'll doubtless admit without argument, Bill, 
 That the Joke is as tough as the Chicken. 
 
 124 
 
MARCH 
 
 The old Saint Patrick's Joke, which once 
 
 The grin of joy could shed 
 Through rain and sleet, no longer flaunts 
 
 The Grin above the Red. 
 
 The Watered Milk Joke's glimmerings fail, 
 
 Yet once it caused a scandal 
 So great the astonished Cow turned Pail 
 
 And the Pump flew off the Handle. 
 
 The Spring House-Cleaning Joke, though penned 
 
 With apt elaboration. 
 No longer o'er the land can send 
 
 Wild Waves of Cachinnation. 
 
 Each year the vernal breezes bring, 
 
 To gladden Wintry Sighers, 
 Heard in man's first primeval Spring, 
 
 The Joke of Fish Tale Liars. 
 
 125 
 
APRIL 
 
 The Easter Hat Joke won some smiles, 
 While Chortling Jokers gloated, 
 
 In days of mid-Victorian styles 
 Before the Women Voted. 
 
 The Umpire Joke served up in gore. 
 With Whiskers shingled neatly. 
 
 Mid rude uproar of Fans galore. 
 Should be invoked discreetly. 
 
 The Frosted Peach Joke which could start 
 
 A Smile no frost could reach, 
 Now makes the Housewife's Smile depart 
 
 As frosted as the Peach. 
 
 About the time when Twittering Birds 
 Their downy nests have made 
 
 The Joke anent Last Summer's Hat 
 Improves the Straw Hat Trade. 
 
 126 
 
MAT 
 
 The May Queen Joke — dear Girl, how oft 
 
 We've found it necessary 
 To shriek with laughter while she coughed- 
 
 No more makes Millions merry. 
 
 We know that Picnic Days are here, 
 
 Time of unstinted gladness, 
 When Rock the Boat Fool Jokes appear. 
 
 To check the Rocker's madness. 
 
 The Garden Joke wins much applause. 
 
 Of Gardeners from town 
 Whose seeds refuse to sprout because 
 
 They're planted Upside Down. 
 
 When the Spring Poet paragraph 
 Was sprung, all vernal friskers 
 
 Long since would laugh at that wild chaff 
 Despite its grizzled whiskers. 
 
 127 
 
JUNE 
 
 With joy we hail June Jokes about 
 
 Weddings and Wedding Trips 
 Of Brides who beam with love devout 
 
 On Bridegrooms in eclipse. 
 
 Of Jokes that rise and Jokes that fall, 
 
 With precious memories laden, 
 Perhaps the sweetest Joke of all 
 
 Clings to the Ice-Cream Maiden. 
 
 The Collar-Button Joke lies cold, 
 
 Fit subject for a Joker's tears; 
 To dusty sleep long since it rolled 
 
 Beneath the Bureau of the Years. 
 
 "Oh, what is so rare as a day in June?" 
 Why, that I've not learned to remember, 
 But the Joke of the Merry June Rock-the-Boat Loon 
 Is is as raw as a day in December. 
 
 128 
 
JULY 
 
 Let's hope that the Toy Pistol Joke, 
 
 On Fourth of July morning, 
 May not, alas, go up in smoke 
 
 With Lads who scorned its warning. 
 
 Here's to the July Jokelet choice 
 That tickled the Joke Sorter, 
 
 About the Viewless Chunk of Ice 
 He purchased for a Quarter. 
 
 The Farm House Joker, long since dead. 
 In peals of mirth once wallowed 
 
 Where food bucolic, so he said. 
 Was hardly ever swallowed. 
 
 The Boston Bean Joke, when required. 
 Once smoothed care's wrinkled brow 
 
 If with artistic gusto fired. 
 It is a Has Bean now. 
 
 129 
 
AUGUST 
 
 The Farmer Joke is slow to die ; 
 
 Some Hayseed still adorns it, 
 Though in his auto gliding by 
 
 The quondam Hayseed scorns it. 
 
 The Picnic Pie Joke doth no more 
 Our souls in laughter smother, 
 
 Perhaps because the Ants are sore 
 On pies not made by mother. 
 
 As long as human law exists 
 
 No power can put a stop 
 To Jokes of callow Journalists 
 
 About the Slumbering Cop. 
 
 The Summer Girl Joke, with a charm 
 That made all Hearts grow mellow. 
 
 No more, when balmy nights grow warm. 
 Disturbs her Winter Fellow. 
 
 130 
 
SEPTEMBER 
 
 We shiver e'en while we guffaw 
 When, standing in wit's portal, 
 
 About Belated Hats of Straw 
 Autumnal Jesters chortle. 
 
 The Stovepipe Joke once thrilled men's slats 
 So that they howled and hooted, 
 
 But to these days of stoveless flats 
 It doesn't seem quite sooted. 
 
 When Autumn winds begin to howl. 
 
 The Moth Ball Joke gets busy 
 To make the Masses cheek by jowl 
 
 With cachinnation dizzy. 
 
 The Small Boy and Green Apple Joke — 
 
 No limit once confined It — 
 May now and then a smile provoke. 
 
 The Small Boy doesn't mind It. 
 
 131 
 
OCTOBER 
 
 When autumn leaves are playing tag, 
 
 Wind-swept across the lawn, 
 There's still some wag to spring the Gag 
 
 Of Overcoats in Pawn. 
 
 The Joke about Her Father's Wrath 
 
 May any day assail us ; 
 While Sweethearts tread Love's Primrose Path 
 
 'Twill not entirely fail us. 
 
 You'd hardly think, and yet 'tis said 
 
 That, tickling Human Slats, 
 Apartment House Jokes once were made 
 
 By flippant Sharps in Flats. 
 
 Here's a Quatrain to that dizzy 
 Joke, undimmed by passing years, 
 
 Of the Small Boy who gets Busy 
 When his Sister's Beau appears. 
 
 132 
 
NOVEMBER 
 
 Lo, when the Year is nearly spent, 
 Thanksgiving skies grown murky, 
 
 We can't forget old Jokes anent 
 The Musings of the Turkey. 
 
 Oh, a Joke whose ancient glitter 
 Often roused a Raucous Roar 
 
 Is that grizzled old Sidesplitter 
 Of the Tack on Bedroom Floor. 
 
 Once Hoopskirt Jokes a smile evoked. 
 Born with a Ghostly Rustle, 
 
 What time Gay Paragraphers Joked 
 Of Grecian Bend and Bustle. 
 
 The Plumber Joke the Joker gripes 
 
 With merriment unfeeling 
 When moisture from the Bursted Pipes 
 
 Frescoes the Walls and Ceiling. 
 
 133 
 
DECEMBER 
 
 When Congress sits we hail with zest 
 
 The Joke about Verbosity, 
 Whose gladsome variations test 
 
 The brain's anfractuosity. 
 
 The Seal Skin Sacque Joke is Played Out, 
 
 And if today it were fetched 
 Into the light, we'd think, no doubt, 
 
 It's humor rather Furf etched. 
 
 Little mirth can the Hair-in-the-Butter Joke rouse 
 Since the days when 'twas drug-tinted yellow, 
 
 And that's why the ruminant Cows as they browse 
 Low in accents so mournfully mellow. 
 
 134 
 
THE SONG OF THE JOKE 
 
 (A long distance after Hood) 
 [Albert (New Brunswick) Maple Leaf. 1886] 
 
 With hair all tumbled and tossed, 
 
 With brain top-heavy with fun, 
 A funny man sat in his dingy den. 
 
 Trying to make a pun. 
 Write ! write ! write ! 
 
 Half -hid in tobacco smoke; 
 And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 
 
 He sang " The Song of the Joke." 
 
 Joke! joke! joke! 
 
 While the printer yells, *" Cop-ee !" 
 And joke — joke — joke. 
 
 With never a smile of glee ; 
 And it's oh, to be a clam 
 
 In the restful mud to lurk, 
 Where American humor never comes. 
 
 If this be Christian work. 
 
 Jokes of the seal-skin sacque ; 
 
 Jokes of Chicago feet ; 
 Jokes of my dear old mother-in-law ; 
 
 Jokes of boarding-house meat; 
 Jokes of the ice-cream girl ; 
 
 And likewise of Thomas cats. 
 What are my wages? The measly cry, 
 
 " Chestnut !" or even, " Rats !" 
 
 135 
 
Rhymes of the Government Printing Office 
 
 [The Trades-Unionist] 
 
 137 
 
AMOS J. CUMMINGS 
 
 Printer, Soldier, Journalist, Congressman. Born, May 15, 
 1841 ; died. May 2, 1902. 
 
 With manly strength to strive for human rights 
 And heart responsive to the thrill of beauty. 
 
 Ambition's murmur reached him from the heights, 
 But never lured him from the path of duty. 
 
 He reached life's summit with no sudden bound, 
 But climbed with mind at ease and footstep steady ; 
 
 And when the sunset shadows gathered round 
 
 And hid the earth he loved, death found him ready. 
 
 For he had humbly toiled and ne'er forgot 
 
 His brother toilers as life's scenes were shifting ; 
 
 Not rashly, but with kindly care, he sought 
 To hasten on the work of man's uplifting. 
 
 139 
 
ADAM BUGG'S CHRISTMAS SERMON 
 
 Brethren: As the Christmas season 
 With its jolHty draws nearer, 
 With its jolHty and gladness, 
 And its music of kind actions. 
 Let us each assist his neighbor. 
 Brother making glad his brother ; 
 Say the pleasant word and hopeful, 
 Do the kindly deed and helpful. 
 
 And, oh, do not let the fellow 
 
 With the much-disordered liver. 
 
 Full of malice, full of envy. 
 
 Stir you up to act unseemly. 
 
 Him too often we have with us. , 
 
 In the language of the vulgar. 
 
 Of destructural jaw-workers, 
 
 He is what is called a " knocker " 
 
 And he loves to ply his hammer 
 
 Till the human heart o'erheated 
 
 Sends forth sparks of senseless passion. 
 
 Foolish hatred. For the knocker 
 
 In his spiteful glee imagines 
 
 That the heart is boiler iron. 
 
 And he causes hideous discords 
 
 Where the heart should throb with music. 
 
 But despite his dreadful clamor 
 Let your path be strewn with flowers ; 
 Gather bright bouquets of friendship 
 From the fields of Christian kindness; 
 
 140 
 
Toss them to your struggling brothers, 
 Help them on their way rejoicing, 
 Better for the genial fragrance 
 Of kind words — of gentle language. 
 Oh, how sweet they bud and blossom 
 As we cross life's desert places — 
 Blooms of Bloomer, Sutton's wild flowers, 
 McPike's Pikes that gem life's turnpike, 
 Newsom's nosegay's, Gunn's wit blossoms. 
 Growths from Redfield's bouquet garden, 
 Morning glories of *' Rough Writer," 
 And " Tim Tickle's " prose perennials ; 
 " Cowboy's " cowslips, " Paste's " wall-flowers, 
 " Cycle's " chrysanthemums reaching 
 Altruistically sunward. 
 Not to mention other blossoms 
 Of good cheer and hope and gladness. 
 
 Now, my brethren, lest the thistles 
 
 And the poison plants which cynics 
 
 Like to cultivate and nourish. 
 
 Foul with atrabilious tarnish, 
 
 Slimy, loathsome, vile, and hellish. 
 
 Should invade the radiant reaches 
 
 Of the fields of Christian kindness, 
 
 Oh, I pray you, shun the knock-talk. 
 
 And with music of kind actions 
 
 Shake the dust from off your heart strings. 
 
 141 
 
THE NEW YEAR: 1904 
 
 Oh, new-born Year, 
 
 Crowned with the wreath of plenty, you appear ! 
 
 What burden do you bear — 
 
 What gift 
 
 That shall uplift 
 
 Mankind, and which 
 
 Shall even enrich 
 
 The treasure by the centuries amassed ? 
 
 Even as your brothers of the past 
 
 Freed earth from fatal damps and lurking beast, 
 
 So that mankind increased ; 
 
 Dispelled earth's primal gloom. 
 
 With sweat-drops glittering on the toiler's brow, 
 
 With fecund furrow of the plow. 
 
 And with the song of spindle and of loom — 
 
 Oh, let our souls be freed 
 
 From self -destructive greed. 
 
 And fill the halls of state 
 
 With that sane vigor which shall conquer hate 
 
 And quench the sordid fever of the mart. 
 
 Redeem the desert places of the heart; 
 
 Make glad the earth 
 
 With childish mirth 
 
 Where children's laughter was not heard before. 
 
 Let men grow wise, 
 
 And learn to prize 
 
 Not more 
 
 The fateful glitter of their hoarded store 
 
 Than golden deeds. 
 
 Far-reaching — seeking how 
 
 To bear the staggering weight of human needs ; 
 
 To vivify the Now 
 
 With fires potential that at last shall glow 
 
 Through customs, laws, and creeds 
 
 In long-sought brotherhood. 
 
 142 
 
THE GIRLS OF THE G. P. 0. 
 
 Shy, coquettish, winsome, sweet, 
 Tall and stately, short, petite. 
 Plump and lovely, slim and fair. 
 Coy, bewitching, debonair: 
 Eyes of brown and eyes of blue, 
 Gray, and every other hue — 
 Here they come from near and far, 
 Some on foot and some by car. 
 Ones and twos and three and fours, 
 Beautifying all outdoors. 
 Laughing, chatting as they go 
 Daily to the G. P. O. 
 
 How they light the morning hour, 
 Though the clouds above may lower, 
 With the sunshine of their smiles ; 
 How their witchery beguiles ; 
 How their presence drives away 
 Blues you thought had come to stay ; 
 Painting life a rosy hue, 
 Till your gray old head feels brown, 
 And a smile dispels your frown, 
 And you almost say out loud, 
 Heedless of the hurrying crowd, 
 " Heaven bless them as they go 
 Daily to the G. P. O." 
 
 143 
 
A PILLAR OF THE WORKS 
 
 [1901] 
 
 (Being a little Rhyme which showeth how ye Able but 
 Mendacious Compositor deceive th ye Young Youth.) 
 
 " What makes you work at night, dear pa, 
 When you might work by day ? 
 I've often wondered why, and ma 
 Says 'tis the extra pay." 
 
 " Not so, young man. I've got the speed, 
 And when on me they call, 
 I can't refuse them in their need, 
 Your mother's off her * trol.' " 
 
 " Pa, what's that light which high in air 
 Gleams through the midnight murk ? " 
 
 " Why, Congress had it planted there 
 To guide me home from work." 
 
 "And you must see the paper goes 
 To press ere you come home ? " 
 
 " That's the express desire of those 
 Who talk beneath the Dome." 
 
 " But what if they should overtalk 
 Themselves this coming winter ? " 
 
 " Don't worry, boy ; we'll get'er out — 
 Me and the Public Printer." 
 
 " Say, pa, you are a crackajack. 
 And much to be admired. 
 My, won't they wish they had you back 
 If ever you get fired ! " 
 
 144 
 
THE RHYME OF THE PRESSMAN 
 
 Whene'er I think of thee, my dear 
 
 And all thy smile expresses, 
 There's sweetest music even in 
 
 The clatter of the presses. 
 And though these words from daily toil 
 
 Are but a brief digression, 
 Yet still I hope my little song 
 
 Will make a good impression. 
 
 145 
 
THE WHISTLE 
 
 Being reflections of Adam Bugg at the end of a HandnSet Turn-in 
 
 Oh, the music of the whistle is a pleasant sound to hear, 
 As it wafts the song of freedom to the weary worker's ear. 
 When his brain is gittin' drowsy and his arm has lost its speed, 
 And his gastronomic system is petitioning for feed. 
 
 Oh, the music of the whistle when she blows at half -past four, 
 Ain't the worst that ever thrilled me since I struck life's sinful 
 
 shore ; 
 And I've noticed that it gits there with its most angelic thrill 
 When there ain't no big hiatus in your average to fill. 
 
 Which, feelin' after-dinnerish, and therefore somewhat fit, 
 I think I'll buttonhole myself and sermonize a bit 
 About the moral average that haunts his brain when man 
 Tries to keep time with the music of the universal plan. 
 
 The flowery paths of life are short; its dusty paths are long; 
 And it's sometimes mighty hard to tell the right path from the 
 
 wrong ; 
 And you've got to travel mostly in a blindfold sort of way 
 With the Devil creepin' close behind to grab you night and day. 
 
 146 
 
There are pitfalls fair and temptin' with the flauntin' flowers 
 
 of sin, 
 Into which the wisest mortal ain't too good to tumble in ; 
 And when you think you're walkin' in the holy light of noon, 
 Maybe you're only follerin' the Devil's pasteboard moon. 
 
 And the best that any man can do is simply plod along, 
 Strivin' with some weary miles of right to discount miles of 
 
 wrong ; 
 Trustin' that his bad will not outweigh the good he gamely 
 
 tried, 
 In the round-up of the sheep and goats beyond the Great 
 
 Divide. 
 
 So I guess you may be able to pass in your chips in style. 
 If your moral average ain't short by more'n half a mile, 
 When the final whistle's music mingles with your parting 
 
 breath, 
 And you make your ghostly exit through the yawning doors 
 
 of death. 
 
 147 
 
ADAM BUGG IN A MIX-UP 
 
 [1898] 
 
 I ain't much on solid thinkin', but I've got a grip on rhyme, 
 Which emboldens me to try to tell about a pleasant time 
 
 That enlivened the Division called numerically Third, 
 But 'twould take a bloomin' Shakspere to describe just what 
 occurred. 
 
 It started somehow this way: Mr. Templar rashly sought 
 To heave a chunk of sarcasm at Gompers's dome of thought. 
 
 Sam has got an even temper that ain't easy to provoke, 
 But he ain't the kind of target for no Pennsylvania joke. 
 
 So he fired a verbal broadside to sweep Templar from his path ; 
 Missed the gent that he was after, and awakened Giles's wrath. 
 
 Then the latter gent in anger swatted everything in sight, 
 And put Ziegler, Harper, Allen, Mutchler, Phelps et al. to flight. 
 
 But Professor Johnny Spencer, who was perched upon his chair, 
 Neatly ducked, and gamely countered with a joke on Morgan's 
 hair. 
 
 Then the thing became a mix-up that was beautiful to see ; 
 For repartees, bon-mots, and sich was flyin' fast and free. 
 
 148 
 
Beadle, Donegan, and Quinn broke loose to show they were not 
 
 proud, 
 Breakin' the repose of Edelen and the silent Mr. Lowd. 
 
 While Jack Roberts, Smith, and Carney sought excitement in 
 
 the broil. 
 With irrelevant reflections on the whiskerlings of Doyle. 
 
 Martin, Purvis, Vaughn, Ross, Hazle all serenely waded in, 
 And Jarvis Moulden scored with a probationary grin. 
 
 And with nerve Napoleonic, Mr. Jaeger all the while 
 Stood and viewed the bloomin' ruction with a bland and genial 
 smile. 
 
 Then Foreman Roberts called the game, and piped all hands 
 
 to " rush," 
 And the jamboree of intellect was followed by a hush. 
 
 I ain't much on solid thinkin', but at rhymin' I'm a peach ; 
 And such scenes as these is likely to result in flowery speech. 
 
 For the brain-tank of the poet is electrically stirred 
 When the think-wheels gits to hummin' in the gay and festive 
 Third. 
 
 149 
 
YE NIGHT MANNE 
 
 As pictured in the Hand-Set Reveries of Adam Bugg. 
 
 Ho ! brother of laborious hours nocturnal, 
 Who makest mad thy brother of the day, 
 
 Provoking overheated words infernal, 
 I fain would do thee justice in this lay. 
 
 I know how thou dost nightly paw our cases 
 And scatter leads and slugs and pi abroad. 
 
 And much debris in most ungodly places. 
 Even yesterday my case by thee was pawed 
 
 Yet I've no wicked howl for the officials. 
 
 Although last week I lost doc stick and rule, 
 
 And view with pain and awe thy bold initials 
 Carved neatly on my new two-dollar stool. 
 
 I know what snares and pitfalls deep beset thee, 
 Oh, pale, laborious brother of the night ; 
 
 So let no dark, remorseful feelings fret thee, 
 But listen while in rhyme I set thee right. 
 
 Thou art but human, though thy hours are ghostly ; 
 
 And so in charity I feel inspired 
 To venture that thy deviltry is mostly 
 
 Due to a common all-round case of tired. 
 
 150 
 
Perhaps the sounds of day disturbed thy slumber, 
 And thou didst labor with an aching head. 
 
 Small wonder, then, if stacks of pi should cumber 
 The spot where I'm supposed to earn my bread. 
 
 Maybe the precious hours of sleep were fated 
 On pleasure's wing to swiftly slip away, 
 
 And thy inspiring presence decorated 
 The pleasant precincts of the matinee. 
 
 Thou knowest well that e'en the midday prowler 
 Must watch and pray to keep the moral law, 
 
 And yet, perchance, the base plebeian " growler " 
 Did draw thee with a lingering dark-brown draw. 
 
 Night Manne, even in my wrathfulness, believe me, 
 
 I find for thee excuses many a one. 
 And, then, who knows how many things that grieve me 
 
 To thee are charged that other hands have done. 
 
 Ho ! brother of laborious hours nocturnal, 
 I've got to end my glad, fraternal rhyme, 
 
 Soft be your sleep and be your dreams supernal ; 
 And bring my stick and rule back, or I'll — Time ! 
 
 151 
 
BILL BILLFORCE 
 
 A ballad of hand-set days, wherein it is recited how an am- 
 bitious and patriotic Nightmanne was dragged into ye 
 daylight bye ye Golden Chain of Love. 
 
 [1902] 
 
 Bill Billforce loved a maiden fair, 
 
 Yet sweetest in ye Swamp; 
 At least Bill often so averred. 
 
 He was her only comp. 
 
 And yet Bill found himself, alas, 
 
 In most unhappy plight ; 
 Ye maiden would not marry him 
 
 Because he toiled at night. 
 
 " Oh, dear one," Bill would often say, 
 " My efforts please them so 
 That when ye night force is made up. 
 They will not let me go. 
 
 " For bills and speeches must not wait 
 On comps whose record is 
 Below ye mark when winter comes 
 And work begins to whiz. 
 
 " So I must roll my shirt-sleeves up, 
 When darkness hits ye earth, 
 And set ye types nocturnally. 
 For all that I am worth. 
 
 152 
 
" In haste I strive to leave behind 
 My fellow printer lads, 
 Achieving glory and a name, 
 As well as extra scads. 
 
 " And since my forefathers of old 
 Ye Sword of Freedom drew 
 And slugged ye English, why should I 
 Not slug ye English, too?" 
 
 His words were music to her ears ; 
 
 But well ye maiden saw 
 How wicked night men from her side 
 
 That wavering comp did draw. 
 
 " I cannot tell," she often sighed. 
 
 Her tender eyes aglow, 
 " How I admire and love you. Bill. 
 
 But wed a night man ? No !" 
 
 Bill struggled hard, but growing weak, 
 
 By tender glances won, 
 At last he flung night's mantle oif 
 
 And toiled beneath ye sun. 
 
 Then, when he said, " Dear girl, be mine ; 
 
 I yield unto your will," 
 Ye maiden answered with a kiss, 
 
 " I'll be daylighted. Bill." 
 
 153 
 
BALLAD OF THE BINDERY BOY 
 
 Oh, they laugh when I sing of love, 
 
 They laugh at my love for you ; 
 They will not believe what my heart has said, 
 And you are laughing, too. 
 You laugh and my soul annoy. 
 And my peace of mind destroy. 
 Because I'm a rollicking 
 Gay and frolicking 
 Pride of the Bindery Boy. 
 
 I am dreaming the whole day long. 
 
 While my thoughts into music run, 
 Of a day when we'll at the altar stand. 
 Two volumes bound in one. 
 For you are my only joy, 
 My true one sweet and coy. 
 Although I'm a rollicking 
 Gay and frolicking 
 Pride of the Bindery Boy. 
 
 154 
 
Topical Verses 
 
 [The Home Papers] 
 
 155 
 
THE JOURNALISTIC RHYMSTER 
 
 LWashington Times] 
 
 I am no molder of old-fashioned verses 
 
 To charm the sHppered bookman at his ease ; 
 
 No tale of ardent love my heart rehearses 
 
 In honeyed phrase. I strike no maudlin keys. - 
 
 No harp divine by my light digits smitten 
 Tinkles and thrills or sounds the battle clang ; 
 
 But of today my jocund songs are written, 
 Well seasoned with a dash of modern slang. 
 
 Let bookish bards trill lays of times romantic 
 Or elevate the world with soulful gush ; 
 
 Still I must sing in stanzas unpedantic 
 Of men whose crowning virtue is to rush. 
 
 Mine is the music of an age of hustle, 
 The trolley's clatter and the auto's chug. 
 
 The cries discordant of the ceaseless tussle 
 Where strenuous mortals push and pull and tug. 
 
 I'm just an unregenerate song-grafter, 
 
 Eschewing mawkish moods and undipped hair, 
 
 Well pleased if now and then a peal of laughter 
 But greet my mongrel rhymes dispelling care. 
 
 157 
 
RHYMES OF THE HH^POWHEEL 
 
 [Washington Republic, 1880] 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 Slowly they drift, 
 
 Or lazily swift 
 Over seemly dead levels go skimming, 
 
 Aloft on a wheel 
 
 Made of rubber and steel. 
 Neither walking nor flying nor swimming. 
 
 Like an incarnate breeze. 
 
 Born of sunshine and trees 
 Seems the bicycler noiselessly hieing. 
 
 With a rigid backbone, 
 
 When his day's work is done 
 And the day apopleticly dying. 
 
 Oh, never did man. 
 
 Not since motion began 
 (Neither walking nor flying nor swimming) , 
 
 So lazily swift. 
 
 So complacently drift, 
 The rich cream of rapidity skimming. 
 
 158 
 
SONG OF THE BICYCL.BRS 
 
 So tranquilly we hie along 
 
 We hardly know we're hieing. 
 And yet we're certain that we hie, 
 Unless our wits are much awry, 
 
 Beyond all qualifying. 
 On wings of joy the moments fly 
 (As those may learn who care to try) 
 Beyond a doubt we're hieing. 
 
 So tranquilly we skim along 
 
 We hardly know we're skimming, 
 Although all objects in the eye 
 (As those may learn who care to try) 
 
 Are vanishingly swimming. 
 Oh, yes, indeed ; we surely skim. 
 As all may learn by use of limb. 
 Beyond a doubt we're skimming. 
 
 We glide along so tranquilly, 
 We hardly know we're gliding. 
 
 And yet supernally we glide, 
 
 As all admit who've truly tried ; 
 It's very plain we're gliding. 
 
 Oh, rarer pastime far is bi- 
 
 (As those may learn who care to try) 
 Cycling than horseback riding. 
 
 159 
 
BICYCLE JENKINS 
 
 Mr. Bicycle Jenkins, adored of the girls, 
 
 Sits aloft on his wheels 
 
 Till the intellect reels 
 As he swims in sidereal twinkles of twirls. 
 
 With a little round cap on his twistical brains 
 
 He whistles a stave 
 
 As he skims o'er the pave. 
 Winning feminine smiles of regard for his pains. 
 
 And his sweetheart informs him that nightly in dreams 
 
 On his twistical feet. 
 
 Passing softly and sweet. 
 He glides in a glory of glittering gleams. 
 
 " And, oh, Bicy ! " she gushingly murmurs, "my heart 
 Is a pavement of tar 
 Over which, like a star, 
 You twinkle along through a welkin of art." 
 
 160 
 
HIGHWAY DITTY 
 
 Behold, I am Captain Jenkins ! 
 
 I am a knight of the wheel 
 As I glide on a ghostly ripple 
 
 Of hurry and glittering steel. 
 
 My wheels in the sunlight ashimmer, 
 In the streets of the town I appear, 
 
 With the hucksterman and the grocer 
 Plodding briskly along in my rear. 
 
 Ah, me ! 'tis a bonny pastime 
 The ribbon of distance to reel, 
 
 Aloft on a ghostly ripple 
 
 Of hurry and glittering steel. 
 
 161 
 
TE JOLLIE BICYCLER 
 
 That steed was never born of flesh 
 
 Whereon he blythely rideth, 
 And with no nag from pasture fresh 
 
 Such tireless speed abideth. 
 
 And well, I ween, his wiry thews 
 For feats of strength are suited, 
 
 And certes noiseless rubber shoes 
 Suit chargers cycle-footed. 
 
 This jollie wight he mounts betimes, 
 Along the highway stretching 
 
 With such cool speed as these poor rhymes 
 Are sorely tried in sketching. 
 
 He haunteth man-frequented ways. 
 And where the grain is yellow 
 
 Meandereth in autumn days 
 The blythe bicycle fellow. 
 
 Nor in the fall alone, I ween, 
 But in the spring and summer 
 
 He wandereth where oft is seen 
 The transitory bummer — 
 
 162 
 
By quiet glens where rustic spooks 
 Haunt woodlands melancholy, 
 
 Or yet where sing the little brooks 
 Their endless pastorale. 
 
 Full oft he meeteth buxom girls, 
 And tramps just out of limbo. 
 
 The mouth-wide-open country churls, 
 Milkmaids with arms akimbo. 
 
 For maiden smile or look of awe 
 
 He has a hasty greeting. 
 Imparting well the solemn saw 
 
 How that man's life is fleeting. 
 
 Oh, ne'er before since Time, I wis. 
 
 Began to wield his sickle 
 Was wrought a hybrid such as this, 
 
 Half man and half vehicle. 
 
 163 
 
CONCORD SUMMER SCHOOL OF PHILOSOPHY 
 
 [The Washington Hatchet, 1884] 
 SING A SONG OF CONCORD 
 
 Across the moorland of the Not 
 
 We chase the gruesome When 
 And hunt the Itness of the What 
 
 Through jungles of the Then. 
 
 Into the inner consciousness 
 
 We track the crafty Where; 
 We grab the Ergo tough and beard 
 
 The Ego in his lair. 
 
 With lassoes of the mind we catch 
 
 The Isness of the Was, 
 And in the thickets of the Whence 
 
 We hear the Think Bugs buzz. 
 
 We climb the lofty Whichwhat Tree 
 
 To watch the Thusness roll 
 And pause betimes in gnostic rhymes 
 
 To woo the Over Soul. 
 
 164 
 
CONCERNING THE CONCORD PHILOSOPHY 
 
 Oh, mark the words, my brudder, 
 
 That I's about to say 
 Regardin' of an evil 
 
 Which confronts the land today. 
 
 Don't you have no kind of doin's 
 
 With that hiferlutin' herd 
 Which am tryin' for to lure you 
 
 From the pages of the Word. 
 
 Let them eat the husks and parin's 
 Of the Couldness of the Should, 
 
 But that ain't the black man's diet 
 When he seeks the heavenly food. 
 
 It may suit the feet of culchaw 
 
 To go trollopin' about 
 Through the brambles and the mud holes 
 
 Of the Mus'ness of the Mought. 
 
 But I tell you that the sinnah 
 Will be lost that wanders thar, 
 
 And the soul am lost that wrassles 
 With the Wharness of the Whar. 
 
 And I jest advise you, chillun, 
 For to leave the What alone, 
 
 And don't listen to the Wasness 
 When the tuneful Is am flown. 
 
 165 
 
Oh, beware of Satan, sinnah ; 
 
 He am swift and he am strong. 
 And he rides the snortin' Henceness 
 
 With intent to do you wrong. 
 
 Watch your step or he will snare you. 
 When the gospel fire am low, 
 
 With the Wharness of the Tharness 
 And the Ahness of the Oh. 
 
 Thar is red-hot fires aroarin' 
 In the Itness of the Which, 
 
 And the eyeballs of the Thingness 
 Am ablaze with burnin' pitch. 
 
 Oh, brudder, don't you hear it — 
 Don't you hear the dreadful din 
 
 Where the Whatlet am adrippin' 
 With the elbow grease of sin? 
 
 Then come up, brudder, sister, 
 And unburden your distress 
 
 Whar the Whatlets cease to trouble 
 And the Meness am at res'. 
 
 Come, and quit your wicked foolin' 
 With the Whichness of the How. 
 
 For the only hope for sinnahs 
 Am the Heahness of the Now. 
 
 166 
 
MUSINGS OF A WOMAN SUFFRAGIST 
 
 (More or less prophetici 
 [Washing-ton Hatchet, 1888] 
 
 If we were only Congressmen, 
 
 Or rather Congressladies, 
 No Congressman should drink again 
 
 Of cold tea steeped in Hades. 
 
 The other sex we'd leave at home 
 Who long have treated us ill; 
 
 We'd buy the Goddess on the Dome 
 A bulging big bronze bustle. 
 
 The man who puffs from cigarettes 
 
 The smoke in ladies' faces 
 And him whose slangy talk begets 
 
 Of nausea the traces; 
 
 The gawk who treads on ladies' trains, 
 
 The high-hat criticizer, 
 Likewise the cruel, void-of-brains 
 
 Anti-spring-bonnet miser — 
 
 Aye, him who after humor strives 
 In vaunting his high-hat ire 
 
 And plants the mothers of men's wives 
 On pedestals of satire — 
 
 167 
 
All these and more we'd squelch by law, 
 
 And just depend upon it 
 That we would get Columbia 
 
 A Prohibition bonnet. 
 
 We'd pass such laws men would go right 
 Even when they struggled wrongwards ; 
 
 Even in the moment of their flight 
 
 Bad words would change to song words. 
 
 The lie fresh from the liar's lips 
 Would cease to be mendacious; 
 
 E'en the fish liar, in strange eclipse, 
 Could not but be veracious. 
 
 Strong drink would soften ere it passed 
 
 The gastronomic throttle. 
 Or, if it were not poured too fast. 
 
 As it glugged from the bottle. 
 
 No legislative spirit then, 
 
 Which of reform afraid is, 
 Would rule if we were Congressmen, 
 
 Or, rather, Congressladies. 
 
 168 
 
SONGS OF THE ANTHRACITE COAL STRIKE, 1902 
 
 [Washington Post] 
 THANKS TO BAER 
 
 That thou hast loosed thy fateful grip at last, 
 And in thy store of coal dost let us share, 
 
 So that we fear no more the wintry blast ; 
 
 That thou dost grant us peace and plenty where 
 
 A week ago stalked grim despair. 
 We thank thee, Baer, 
 
 Our thanks arise because the Almighty placed 
 The Pennsylvania coal mines in thy care. 
 
 And if we could, for gifts to thee not traced — 
 For drinks we drink, for what we eat and wear, 
 
 Likewise for sunlight and for air — 
 We'd thank thee, Baer. 
 
 By glowing fires which soon shall warm them througi. 
 
 Husband and wife, and children everywhere, 
 The baby on the hearth-rug warm — oo-goo — 
 
 The housemaid and the fond and loving pair, 
 And grandpa in his old armchair, 
 
 All thank thee, Baer. 
 
 169 
 
THE ANTHRACITE OF LOVE 
 
 Dost thou dread the coming winter, 
 
 Oh, beloved of my soul ? 
 Spake the Bard of Avon truly — 
 
 All that glitters is not coal. 
 Be thou mine, and no chill tremors 
 
 Through thy tender frame shall dart ; 
 For there's warmth potential hidden 
 
 In the coal mines of the heart. 
 
 Though the east wind madly mutters 
 
 At the frosty window pane. 
 And the hyperborean breezes 
 
 Mingle snow and sleet and rain. 
 We'll but laugh to scorn, my darling, 
 
 The coal barons of the mart ; 
 For there's anthracite aplenty 
 
 In the coal bins of the heart. 
 
 Fang of frost nor breath of blizzard 
 
 Shall affright thee, darling one. 
 Though the price of coal soar higher 
 
 Than a hundred plunks per ton. 
 We will only snuggle closer. 
 
 And no frost our souls shall part. 
 While love's anthracite is glowing 
 
 In the fire-place of the heart. 
 
 170 
 
THE OLD PIANO 
 
 Drag forth the old piano, pa, I feared 'twould come at last ; 
 So slowly were the coal bins filled that hope has long since 
 
 passed. 
 For ten long weeks the mercury has stood at ten below ; 
 The earth is covered ten feet deep with mingled sleet and snow ; 
 And men have had to sacrifice for warmth almost the whole 
 Of everything combustible to burn instead of coal. 
 
 Drag forth the old piano, pa. What memories cluster round 
 That dear old rosewood instrument, the home of heavenly 
 
 sound ! 
 When first I touched its virgin keys we'd only just been wed. 
 And sweet unto our love-tuned ears the music that it shed. 
 So true it spoke it almost seemed to have a mortal soul. 
 And now we'll have to chop it up to burn instead of coal. 
 
 The furniture is all consumed from chairs to escritoire. 
 
 And wolfish winds with teeth of frost still howl about the door. 
 
 So drag the old piano out. What music used to flow 
 
 When sister Mary made it talk some forty years ago; 
 
 What good old songs it helped along which 'neath our roof did 
 
 roll; 
 But now we'll have to chop it up to burn instead of coal. 
 
 Drag forth the old piano, pa, and go and get the ax : 
 Even now with quaking heart I hear the devastating whacks. 
 Well I remember when you joined the Anthracite Quartet ; 
 I hear " Down in a Coal Mine " sung in deep- voiced cadence yet. 
 But now no " dusky diamonds " we get from that deep hole. 
 And we must use the household pride to burn instead of coal. 
 
 171 
 
HOW AN EX-PRESIDENT FAILED TO SAVE HIS 
 COUNTRY 
 
 [Washington Post, November 7, 1902] 
 
 The land was overrun by Anarchs wild 
 And Pseudo-Patriots — a brawling brood. 
 
 Who in unseemly Recrudescence smiled 
 And failed to seek Innocuous Desuetude. 
 
 But stores of Thought I hold in usufruct, 
 
 Safe hid in my encephalonic cells, 
 Ripe fruitage from the Tree of Knowledge plucked, 
 
 Which oft has stilled the Spoilsman's blatant yells. 
 
 So to save Freedom's Temple from the shocks 
 Of Demagogy's fell plutonian powers, 
 
 I shored it up with Truth's granitic blocks 
 And polysyllabled its crumbling towers. 
 
 Then from my academic habitat, 
 
 Heedless of those who scoifed in Ghoulish Glee, 
 I came resolved, ere Truth was leveled flat, 
 
 To save the Institutions of the Free. 
 
 The raucous ululations of the Crowd, 
 
 The futile javelins of vulgar jest. 
 The scorn of Plutocratic Barons proud. 
 
 Served not to swerve me from my doughty quest. 
 
 With ratiocinative catapults 
 
 I shook the bastioned walls where Error throve ; 
 But, victim of fatiferous results, 
 
 I strove in vain — even I, the Ego Grove. 
 
 172 
 
BECAUSE HE DIDN'T TAKE HIS LEAVE 
 
 [Washington Post, October 26, 1902] 
 
 (A jingle in tribute to a Government worker the head of 
 whose bureau commended him publicly for having gone 
 fourteen years without taking any of his annual leave.) 
 
 Uncle Sam once had a truly trusty clerk 
 
 For his little monthly stipend proud to work, 
 And he did not like vacations, 
 For he deemed his time the nation's, 
 
 To be passed in daily toil without a shirk. 
 The summer sun might sizzle, broil, or roast 
 In its fierce desire to drive him from his post ; 
 
 But that was not a thing to make him grieve. 
 For somehow he had a notion 
 That at last he'd win promotion — 
 
 Just because he didn't take his leave. 
 
 Nature called him to the hills and to the shore; 
 
 Told him what she had for weary brains in store. 
 But he strove against her power. 
 Missed the charm of bird and flower 
 
 And the summer girl with witchery galore. 
 The fragrance of the flower was not for him, 
 Nor the twitter of the bird upon the limb ; 
 
 But this was not a thing to make him grieve. 
 For his chief's approving glances 
 Told him of his brightening chances — 
 
 Just because he didn't take his leave. 
 
 Though vacationless he toiled from year to year, 
 Pause, oh, rash leave-taker, ere in scorn you jeer. 
 
 What is summer dissipation 
 
 To the burden of a nation 
 Shouldered howe'er humbly with a heart sincere? 
 
 It is true he never foozled on the links 
 
 And knew nothing of society's high jinks; 
 But that was not a thing to make him grieve. 
 
 For to work he was devoted 
 
 And at last he got promoted — 
 Just because he didn't take his leave. 
 
 173 
 
UNCLE SAM TO WU 
 
 [Washington Post, 1902] 
 
 This nosegay wild 
 
 Of Yankee ragtime verses undefiled 
 
 Is dedicated to 
 
 A pagan who 
 
 Has much extended my provincial view ; 
 
 To wit : to Wu. 
 
 Oh, suave Confucian diplomat, 
 
 Thou didst essay to teach 
 
 That lofty thought and even festive speech 
 
 Date back, may be, 
 
 At least to Ararat, 
 
 And do not flourish free, 
 
 Luxuriant and new. 
 
 Alone in Bryan and Depew 
 
 Or any of the proud spellbinding few. 
 
 With genial guile 
 
 Thou madst the ungodly smile 
 
 At childlike, aimless shots, 
 
 Which somehow sometimes reached my tender spots ; 
 
 And thou wouldst not make glad 
 
 The hearts of Chinophobes by being bad. 
 
 Thou didst not stay up late 
 
 And dissipate ; 
 
 Poker thou didst eschew. 
 
 Oh, Wu. 
 
 174 
 
Perhaps fan-tan 
 
 Is better suited to thy moral plan. 
 
 But, no; 
 
 I'll let that pass — 
 
 For much I grieve, alas, 
 
 To miss the Oriental glow 
 
 Of thy thought's flow ; 
 
 Yet tears of joy, I guess, some time will pour 
 
 To see thy bland and friendly smile once more, 
 
 Dispelling pagan shadows of the past, 
 
 As it lights up at last 
 
 The Open Door. 
 
 Like me, 
 
 A question asker, thou, of high degree. 
 
 Which makes my woe 
 
 Much deeper than it otherwise would grow ; 
 
 For, oh. 
 
 Even the Interrogation Point 
 
 Is out of joint 
 
 Since thou must go. 
 
 175 
 
THE GENTLE CHIEF 
 
 [Washington Post, November 9, 1902] 
 
 He was mild and gentle-spoken, 
 
 And his restful smile unbroken, 
 Shone through whiskers somewhat clerical in fashion ; 
 
 He was free from every weakness 
 
 And his air of lofty meekness 
 Told that he had never given rein to passion. 
 
 He believed in soulful leisure, 
 
 And he never felt the seizure 
 Of a wish to tackle work in strenuous grapples. 
 
 So his clerks he never goaded. 
 
 And his desk was always loaded 
 With bouquets, and sweetmeats rare, and big red apples. 
 
 Did a clerk at times get noddy. 
 
 Due perhaps to too much toddy. 
 He would not with censure hurt his finer feeling, 
 
 He'd ignore all symptoms beery. 
 
 And with Christian words of cheer, he 
 Would uplift his clerks if ere he saw them reeling. 
 
 On the head he'd kindly pat them. 
 
 And he never muttered " Drat 'em ! " 
 Lest such cruelty of speech might move to curses. 
 
 But if nothing else would do them 
 
 He would read a poem to them ; 
 For his forte was writing strictly moral verses. 
 
 176 
 
If the air got overheated 
 
 In the summer — if it sleeted, 
 And the bhzzard raved in cadence wild and moany — 
 
 He would gather them together, 
 
 And they'd analyze the weather 
 In a care-dispelling conversazione. 
 
 If a literary clerkess 
 
 Who disdained to be a workess. 
 Strove in romance-reading stunts to brightly bunch time, 
 
 He'd request her to stop reading 
 
 Till the hour had come for feeding, 
 And discuss the story's plot with her at lunch time. 
 
 To his lady clerks flirtatious 
 
 He was always kind and gracious, 
 Whether females of the lower class or upper; 
 
 And lest they again might wander. 
 
 He would have them sit and ponder. 
 While he read some lines from Martin Farquhar Tupper. 
 
 On this earth no more you'll find him, 
 
 And there's no one left behind him, 
 Who so well for painless discipline is fitted. 
 
 But for him be not regretful, 
 
 Since he dwells of care forgetful 
 Where unruly clerks will never be admitted. 
 
 177 
 
UNCLE SAM TO MISS CANADA 
 
 iThe Alaskan Boundary Commission having decided in favor 
 of the United States.) 
 
 [Washington Post, 1903] 
 
 I am sorry for you, sister, and I know your case is sad ; 
 
 And though mine has been the profit, yet it hurts me most as 
 
 bad. 
 And of course I do not blame you if you feel a little sore 
 Since my line-fence was allowed to run jam up by your back 
 
 door. 
 
 But remember while in anger you defy the motherland 
 
 With the threat of independence, and your sons undaunted 
 
 stand 
 With their bosoms well inflated for a fiercely warlike shout, 
 That your Uncle Sam'll git you if you don't watch out. 
 
 It'll do you good to whimper ; for you've not been vexed by strife 
 And the things most of us suffer in the nursery of life, 
 And you've yet to learn that living hasn't quite lost all its joy 
 Just because some bigger infant has purloined a treasured toy. 
 
 There's a hint of future greatness in the music of your sobs, 
 And I'm glad your heart unfettered at the thought of freedom 
 
 throbs. 
 And I hope you'll soon feel better. But, remember, when you 
 
 pout, 
 That your Uncle Sam'll git you if you don't watch out. 
 
 178 
 
BATTLE HYMN OF PANAMA 
 
 [Washing^ton Post. November 10, 1903] 
 
 From no mountain height of Freedom 
 
 Was our glorious flag unfurled 
 And we sought no grandstand plaudits, 
 
 Firing shots heard round the world. 
 Times have changed since gory heroes 
 
 Of their fights for country bragged ; 
 Mid no war shouts rose our standard, 
 
 But our courage never flagged. 
 
 For we sat in secret conclave 
 
 When we built us up a state, 
 Sons of Freedom, cool and cautious. 
 
 Subtle, keen, and up to date ; 
 Laid our wires with skill artistic, 
 
 Planning 'gainst untimely slips, 
 With much faith in business methods 
 
 And an Uncle who has ships. 
 
 No long list of dead and wounded 
 
 Glorifies our virgin scroll. 
 Though against the Constitution 
 
 We set out for Freedom's goal ; 
 But we've shown how modern heroes, 
 
 Free from wild unseemly hate. 
 Can, without undue excitement. 
 
 Build republics while you wait. 
 
 179 
 
REMARKS BY A HARD SPITTER 
 
 [Washington Post, March 30, 1903] 
 
 The world is getting better, Bill, 
 Since you and I were boys, 
 
 And will not brook unpleasant sights 
 And unesthetic noise. 
 
 The world is getting better. Bill, 
 
 And now it is the talk 
 That we're to be forbid by law 
 
 From spitting on the walk. 
 
 The world is getting better. Bill, 
 Which I don't much regret; 
 
 It yet will be a heinous crime 
 To smoke a cigarette. 
 
 Things which offend the cultured gaze 
 Will be removed from view, 
 
 And public whistling out of tune 
 Will likewise be taboo. 
 
 The world is getting better. Bill, 
 And shirtsleeves on the street 
 
 May yet offend against the law. 
 However hot the heat. 
 
 And with prophetic eyes I read 
 
 A statute which asserts 
 That women must in public wear 
 
 Be-it-enacted skirts. 
 
 The world is getting better, Bill ; 
 
 Some day a law there'll be 
 Reciting that our weekly baths 
 
 At least shall number three. 
 
 180 
 
When summer's unrestricted heat 
 
 Suggests internal fires 
 The workhouse will await the man 
 
 Who sweats when he perspires. 
 
 The world is getting better, Bill, 
 
 By science pushed along, 
 And many a helpful law shall yet 
 
 Safeguard the reckless throng. 
 
 They'll wash our souls with psychic soap 
 
 Whene'er we downward sink. 
 Lest bad bacilli vitiate 
 
 The very thoughts we think. 
 
 Yet still I fondly hanker. Bill, 
 
 For those good days of yore, 
 When we could spit upon the walk 
 
 And even on the floor — 
 
 When in robustious ignorance 
 
 We stemmed the moral tide, 
 And deep-drawn breaths of wholesome air 
 
 Bacteria defied. 
 
 The world is getting better, Bill, 
 
 But I can't make the pace ; 
 For I must chew and spit without 
 
 Regard to time or place. 
 
 And this my dream of heavenly bliss, 
 
 To pass midsummer hours 
 Where I can squirt tobacco juice 
 
 At bugs among the flowers. 
 
 181 
 
YE LIFTING OF YE CUPPE: A. D. 2093 
 
 [Washington Post, August 23, 1903] 
 
 Ye Duke of Shamrock paced ye coast 
 
 Beside ye Irish main, 
 And thus unto his son made boast 
 
 How he renown did gain. 
 
 Aloft, he said. Fame's tankard fling, 
 
 And of contentment sup. 
 While I in joyous language sing 
 
 Ye lifting of ye Cuppe. 
 
 Sir Tummus No. 1 essayed 
 
 In vain that prize to lift, 
 So that ye stout endeavor made 
 
 Much havoc with his thrift. 
 
 Of worldly goods, I ween, he had 
 
 A goodly overflow; 
 It made ye shipwrights feel right glad 
 
 When he coughed up ye dough. 
 
 Yet haply on ye other side 
 Ye Cuppe had always stayed, 
 
 But good Sir Tummus ere he died 
 Married a Yankee maid. 
 
 That union was with sea dogs blest 
 
 Of Lipton's salt-sea line, 
 Who ne'er forgot their founder's quest 
 
 A-sailing o'er ye brine. 
 
 And year by year ye Cuppe they sought 
 
 In vain across ye sea, 
 Until at last ye people thought 
 
 It could not lifted be. 
 
 182 
 
In jovial mood men jeered and sniffed, 
 
 And said it was absurd ; 
 Yet I at last ye Cuppe did lift, 
 
 With Shamrock XXXIII. 
 
 Ye Eagle Bird did proudly glide, 
 With Yankee cunning wrought, 
 
 When I upon ye other side 
 Ye longed-for trophy sought. 
 
 Right gallantly she cut ye brine ; 
 
 But I upon ye shore 
 Did push ye Shamrock o'er ye line 
 
 With wireless trolley power. 
 
 And when ye Yankees cried, "A fluke ! " 
 
 It did not vex me, son ; 
 For I was shortly made a duke 
 
 Because ye Cuppe I won. 
 
 And you shall have, when I am dead. 
 
 Ye Cuppe to hold for life. 
 Thanks to ye craft inherited 
 
 From good Sir Tummus' wife. 
 
 In gentle breeze or howling blast, 
 Guard well that relic. Zounds ! 
 
 That beastly mug from first to last 
 Has cost ten million pounds ! 
 
 1«3 
 
THE TALKATIVE WAR CLOUD 
 
 [Washing-ton Plate Printer, September 15, 1904] 
 
 I am a good old War Cloud, 
 
 Fond of a lively scrap, 
 And for The Hague Tribunal 
 
 I do not give a rap. 
 
 For in my breast are hidden 
 The tangled skeins of fate, 
 
 The fires of human passion 
 And fratricidal hate. 
 
 I view the angry peoples, 
 
 My darkening wings outspread. 
 
 And when they get to fighting 
 Red tears of joy I shed. 
 
 Sweet are the sounds of battle 
 What time in martial glee. 
 
 With Shakspere's Puck, I am thinking 
 What fools these mortals be. 
 
 'Tis fun to hear them preaching 
 Of days when strife shall cease, 
 
 While raising bigger armies 
 With which to keep the peace. 
 
 And while they swat each other 
 And paint the earth with gore, 
 
 As for The Hague Tribunal 
 I hate it more and more. 
 
 For Fm a good old War Cloud 
 
 And like no tender tune, 
 But want to see the Powers 
 
 Get at each other soon. 
 
 184 
 
John Bull's a strenuous scrapper, 
 And for a Christian gent 
 
 His list of slaughter reaches 
 A pretty big per cent. 
 
 And Uncle Sam's in training, 
 Who used to be so meek ; 
 
 You bet it's safe no longer 
 To smite his other cheek. 
 
 So ere the struggle's ended 
 'Twixt Muscovite and Jap, 
 
 I hope they'll all be mingled 
 In a good old world-wide scrap. 
 
 I want to see them scrapping 
 In good old-fashioned style 
 
 Unvexed by windy mouthings 
 Of diplomatic guile. 
 
 I want to see them scrapping 
 
 And hear their shouts and groans 
 
 Mid seas of gore and mountains 
 Of unassorted bones. 
 
 Until at last exhausted 
 
 From war each nation shrinks, 
 And then The Hague Tribunal 
 
 Can ravel out the kinks. 
 
 185 
 
OPENING THE DOOR 
 
 [Washing-ton Times, July. 1905] 
 
 To the Timple of Pace now the world turns its eyes — 
 All the Christians at laste, an' some haythen likewise. 
 And indade 't will be best for th' world in th' ind, 
 When th' Russ clasps the hand of th' Jap as a frind. 
 For th' Powers '11 be prisint wid schames to unfold 
 Tradin' progress an' culture for slathers of gold. 
 
 Where th' man in th' rickshaw now rides at his aise, 
 Th' contimptyus conductor'll yell, " Stip lively, plase ! " 
 Spears of infloonce will spring where th' chopstick wance grew, 
 An' th' heads of th' masses grow bald where th' queue. 
 Held these cinturies long in the hard hand of fate, 
 Kept th' down-trodden haythens from strikin' their gait. 
 
 We'll improve their theayters wid knock-about mokes 
 An' th' pick of our ragtime an' Tind'rline jokes. 
 Not to mintion th' wild, headlong plunge into tanks. 
 For reforums aplinty they'll have to give thanks 
 And a few slight concissions to open up trade ; 
 An' 'twill be a bright marnin' for Progriss, indade, 
 Wid th' chist of King Cotton swilled out till it hurts. 
 Whin thim five hundred millions of haythen buy shirts. 
 
 J86 
 
CARNEGIE'S DREAM 
 
 [Washington Trades-Unionist] 
 
 Andrew Carnegie had a dream one night 
 
 Which, when he woke, made earthly pathways bright. 
 
 It seems he wandered by St. Peter's gate 
 
 And found that he was twenty minutes late. 
 
 Exceeding wealth had made Carnegie bold ; 
 
 So, as on earth, he strenuously strolled. 
 
 Lost in the emptiness of mortal fame. 
 
 But soon he heard St. Peter call : " Your name ? 
 
 Carnegie? Then I'd seek, if I were you, 
 
 The Needle's Eye. Perhaps you can squeeze through.'' 
 
 At this Carnegie felt some slight dismay, 
 
 And trembled as he heard the voice : " This way ! " 
 
 Yet he strode forward at a rapid pace 
 
 Till, where the Needle's Eye once had a place, 
 
 Lo, o'er a spacious portal his own bust 
 
 Was niched mid sculptured emblems of the just, 
 
 And safe where wealth could burden him no more 
 
 Carnegie passed through the Library Door. 
 
 187 
 
THE POETS 
 
 [Washington Star] 
 
 These are the makers of song, 
 Simple and tender and strong, 
 Standing rapt in the glory 
 Of thought that burns steady and passes 
 In its sweep from the stars to grave grasses. 
 From the joy to the grief of life's story. 
 
 Fair in their hearts rises youth ; 
 There smoulder embers of truth. 
 Strewn with ashes of sorrow. 
 There are pain and regret and the traces 
 Of conflict with sin in their faces ; 
 
 But they dream of a better tomorrow. 
 
 They bend, in the temple of song, 
 Their strength to the struggle with wrong 
 And they find a sure guerdon 
 In the hope that their souls may be gifted 
 So to sing that some toiler uplifted 
 
 May stoop with less pain 'neath his burden. 
 
 Theirs is the passion that glows 
 Pure as the breath of a rose ; 
 In their bosoms are burning 
 The fires of the heart's sweet awaking, 
 Of the joy that is almost heart-breaking. 
 Of deep love in its uttermost yearning. 
 
 1S8 
 
Calm 'raid the strife of the throng, 
 These are the makers of song, 
 Human tenderness voicing; 
 From the griefs of humanity reaping 
 A fruitage of cheer; in men's weeping 
 
 Finding chords of a hymn of rejoicing. 
 
 They, where men falter and grope, 
 Come with the blossoms of hope, 
 Fair from the fields of the ages. 
 Fragrant with promise of cleaner. 
 Sweeter with love, and serener 
 
 Records of man in life's pages. 
 
 Theirs is the battle with fate, ■ 
 Theirs is the torch at the gate 
 Of the stronghold of error ; 
 And men, while war's echoes go ringing. 
 Hear the sweet undertones in their singing 
 Of peace and the passing of terror. 
 
 These are the makers of song, 
 Scorners of foulness and wrong, 
 And base pride in high places, 
 Who with mirth too heroic for laughter 
 Foretell a love-lighted hereafter, 
 
 With the glow of its dawn in their faces. 
 
 189 
 
THE ONE SURE THING 
 
 [Washington Star] 
 
 There are sounds of laughter and singing 
 And sounds that of woe make part, 
 
 As the earth to its fate goes swinging ; 
 But love is lord of the heart, 
 
 And cloudy or fair the weather, 
 
 Some souls will be drifting together, 
 And souls be drifting apart. 
 
 Dark evil may lurk in the byways. 
 Still blinking in wrath at the dawn, 
 
 And the terror leap forth on the highways 
 Of the sword from its scabbard withdrawn ; 
 
 But cloudy or fair the weather, 
 
 Some souls will be drifting together. 
 And souls be drifting apart. 
 
 Though unmoved by the poet's dreaming. 
 
 Men tarry too long in the mart. 
 And grow cold in the pride of their scheming, 
 
 Yet love is lord of the heart ; 
 And cloudy or fair the weather. 
 Some souls will be drifting together, 
 
 And souls be drifting apart. 
 
 190